


A Death in Harfleur

by OssaCordis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Case Fic, Hundred years' war, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-09 18:07:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1992669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OssaCordis/pseuds/OssaCordis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>October 1415 </p><p>Surgeon John Watson arrives in France in the days following the siege of Harfleur, only to find the English camp haunted by a series of suspicious suicides…</p><p>Lord Sherlock Holmes wants nothing more than to understand the cause of these deaths, but finds a certain surgeon rather distracting…</p><p>A slash retelling of <i>A Study in Pink</i> set during the Hundred Years' War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The modern-day incarnations of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson et al. belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC. The plot of this story and any original characters belong to me.

**_Harfleur, France: Early October, 1415_ **

* * *

After three seasick days and troubled nights aboard the _Katherine de la Tour_ , it was almost a relief to see the French coastline on the horizon. The Channel had not been kind to them: first interminably delaying their departure from Southampton with unfavourable winds, and then tossing them a day off course when at last they sailed.

Fortunately, John mused, they had missed the lengthy siege at Harfleur; news of the surrender had reached England more than a week ago. It was not a sentiment shared by his company: mostly young longbowmen spoiling for a fight. John was no coward, but he had seen more than his fair share of war, and had not intended to join this expedition to the continent. His days as a man-at-arms were long over, though his skills as a surgeon were now in great demand.

John watched as the other men of his company jumped to the dock and waited for a plank to be set against the hull of the ship for himself. His descent was shaky, his bad leg aching with each step. Memories that he had long ago stopped trying to forget floated lazily through his mind. The carnage of the Crusades, and how he had loved and hated the battlefield at the same time… noble James, his lord, his truest friend, his… it was too painful to remember the rest. And the searing pain of the Ottoman blade in his shoulder, followed by feverish days when, half out of his wits, he had begged God for death, and it had not come…

He was interrupted from his thoughts when his company set off towards the English camp, just visible south of the harbour. John stayed behind, sagging against a crumbling city wall until he had caught his breath and felt a bit steadier. This battle was long over, and there was no great hurry for him to report for duty. The men fated for a fast, painless death would have been buried days ago, and those doomed to linger would not suffer from a lack of a surgeon for an hour or so.

He followed the road from the harbour into Harfleur proper. The way was lined with stretchers and the emaciated bodies of men and horses. A heavy odour of blood and faeces and the sickly-sweet stench of death hung in the air, stronger even than the smoke from still-smouldering houses. Some foul disease had clearly descended among the English. Covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve, John knelt and inspected a couple of men.  It did not seem to be plague or the pox, and for that, he was glad. Or as glad as a man could be.

Inside the main city gate, he was forced to pause again to rest his leg. It gave him the opportunity to look around and speculate which way a tavern might be, if such things still existed and were open for business in Harfleur.

“John! John of London, son of Wat!”

Startled, John looked up at a man in a faded and worn doublet, manically waving as he trundled down an alleyway. John stood and took a few hesitant steps forward. His confusion must have shown on his face, because the other man called out, “It’s me! Michael of Stamford! We apprenticed together, under the same physician!”

“God’s teeth,” John swore under his breath. “Mike! My old friend! Forgive me, I did not recognize you.”

“I know, I know,” Mike said, his face flushed and sanguine. “I got fat!”

“Nay, not at all,” John said. “You look well, my friend. Prosperous.”

“Fat,” Mike repeated. “It has been far too many years! I never thought to see you again, John. I last heard you were being stabbed by the Ottomans, or something. What happened?”

“I was stabbed,” John said, smiling. But the smile did not reach his eyes.

* * *

The port had nearly been levelled by King Henry’s wrathful English guns. Most of the native women and their children had fled down the river to Rouen, and a goodly number of French burgesses who refused to swear loyalty to the King had been sent back to England as prisoners until their ransoms were paid. Thus, certain quarters of the city were eerily empty, leaving John and Mike to drink in peace. Cheap wine was the one thing that Harfleur appeared to have in great quantities.

“I noticed a good many men lying on pallets and stretchers at the docks,” John said. “What illness are they stricken with, Mike?”

“Bloody flux,” Mike said, his face turning grim. “It broke out just as the fighting began, and has not ceased since, nor spared wealthy nor poor, nor English nor French. Too many of our men have died of it, and more are being sent home as soon as the ships arrive to take them. _Katherine_ herself will be relegated to this task, I daresay.”

John nodded. “Then it is good we arrived when we did. I come with a company of fresh archers, to serve under Sir Thomas Erpingham. I am to be his second surgeon.”

Mike shook his head. “Glad tidings, but it may not be enough. This whole campaign risks failure, I am afraid. The King did not expect to linger in Harfleur for so long, and now the French gather forces and circle us like hungry wolves. We cannot fight them. We do not even have enough men for a proper chevauchée across the countryside. At best, we can march to the safety of our port of Calais, and then sail home to England. In disgrace.”

Mike lowered his voice and leaned closer to John. “There is something darker at work here, too. The men whisper that the Devil himself has been in our camp. Three suicides, so far. A man-at-arms, a longbowman, and a local prostitute that was often seen about camp.”

There was a long, tense moment of silence. John knocked back the rest of his drink and closed his eyes, letting the wine burn down the back of his throat.

 “What about you, then?” Mike asked, sitting back and letting his voice lighten. “How does an old surgeon and crusader like yourself find his way to Normandy?”

“I could not afford London,” John said, gritting his teeth. “And had nowhere else to go, until Sir Thomas offered me a commission.”

“That hardly sounds like the man I know,” Mike said, his voice gentle and level. “Always leaping into excitement and trouble… he loved a fight, did John.”

“I am not that man anymore,” John snapped. His leg ached and his fist shook like a weak, old man, prompting a flash of anger within.

Mike looked stared into his cup of wine, reluctant to meet John’s gaze. “Harry cannot help?”

“As if that would happen,” John scoffed.

Mike shrugged. “Well, Sir Thomas will be a good master for you. He is wise and just, and treats his men as his equals.”

John slumped in his seat.

“Have you reported for duty yet?”

“I meant to find some refreshment first,” John said, nodding to his empty cup.

Mike drained his wine. “And refreshed you are. Come. I will take you to the camp. That is where you will find Sir Thomas.”

* * *

“How fresh?”

The soldiers jostled each other, visibly uncomfortable. Finally, either gathering enough courage or bullied into speaking by his peers, one man spoke. “‘e just died, milord. This morrow.”

“Before or after the sun rose?”

“Before,” the soldier said.

“And he had the same signs as the others?”

“‘e clutched ‘is belly like ‘e was in terrible pain, and retched and ‘ad blood in ‘is stool and ‘is brow was as ‘ot as a midsummer sun.”

“Where did he die?”

“Right ‘ere, milord. By the campfire, as we prayed to our Lord Jesus and the Blessed Virgin for ‘is soul.”

“Had he been out of the camp the night before?”

“Milord?”

“Did he go into the city, or out into the marshes?”

“No, milord. ‘e’s been ill for a week. ‘e never left the camp, not in four days.”

The man pursed his lips and shook his head. “No. No. Just the flux. Not a suicide. Give him a proper burial, men. But make it well outside the camp, and away from where you draw your water at the river.”

* * *

Sir Thomas was an older man, with silvery hair and a sharp, scarred face. John knew the sort: a career warrior. His armour was not for decoration.

When Mike and John found him, he was sitting at a makeshift table outside of his tent with another man, presumably a lord by his fine dress. Both men were engrossed in what John thought was perhaps a catalogue of camp supplies, from what he could read upside down. John was very proud of knowing his letters; not everyone with his sort of background could boast the same. As Mike waited to introduce him, a number of archers and captains milled about, looking bored and frustrated in turns as the two noblemen quietly conferred about whatever was on the parchment. At last, Sir Thomas registered their presence, and beckoned Mike forward.

“Good den, sirrah. You are a physician, are you not?” Sir Thomas shot a look at the nobleman beside him, who nodded slightly in accord. “How is it with you today?”

Mike bowed deeply, and John followed suit. “Well, Sir Thomas. I wish I could say the same for our all of our soldiers.”

Sir Thomas scowled. “More deaths this morrow?”

“Too many,” Mike said, shaking his head. “But I have not come to burden you with those figures just now. Might I have a moment of your time for a more personal matter, if you please?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“I am Michael of Stamford, surgeon to Lord Camoys. This is my good friend and colleague, John, son of Wat of London. He arrived today, from Southampton, with a company of archers to join the campaign.”

“But he is not a longbowman, this John Watson, is he?” the other nobleman interrupted. John turned and really looked at him for the first time. He was unusually tall, nearly James’ height… but with dark, unruly hair; pale eyes that seemed to see right through you; and an intriguingly angular face that was striking, but too long to be truly pleasant. “When did you decide to give up surgery for the Crusades?”

“I… um… sorry, milord?”

“Ottomans. You did fight against the Ottoman Empire? As a man-at-arms, not an archer. Presumably in Constantinople, given the date of their last siege.”

“Milord, how did you…” John gaped a little bit and turned to Mike.

“Spoke nary word about you to anyone here,” he replied, shrugging.

The man turned back towards Mike. “Might I borrow a quill from you, sirrah?”

Mike shook his head. “I am sorry, milord. All of my instruments and tools are in my tent.”

“Here,” John said, pulling a quill from inside the purse hanging on his belt. “I have yet to unpack.”

The man accepted the quill and turned it over once in his hands before dipping it into Sir Thomas’ pot of ink and scratching a few words onto a parchment. He then handed it to one of the Sir Thomas’ captains, who nodded and promptly strode off across the camp, and up the hill to where John could see the King’s banner fluttering over a pavilion.

Then the man turned back to Sir Thomas. “Erpingham, I am afraid my personal physician died three days ago of the bloody flux. Might I impose on you to give me your spare surgeon for the remainder of the campaign, as you now have two?”

Sir Thomas had already turned his attention back to another parchment on the table and was clearly not interested in the conversation anymore. “Yes, fine. I will sign Watson’s indenture over to you as soon as I get a moment.”

“Excellent. I will be off, then. But do look more deeply into that matter with the arrowheads. It is most suspicious.”

John chewed on his lower lip, debating with himself whether he should speak or not as the strange nobleman stood and began to move away. “Is that it, milord?” he finally burst out.

“Problem, John Watson?”

He had to speak carefully. It was not wise to anger nobles. “Milord, I have just arrived this very day. I do not even know your name, or where I am to report for duty. And you do not know a thing about me, or whether or not you want me in your company.”

The man turned and glared at John, his eyes glinting strangely in the dying, autumnal light. “I know you are a surgeon and a warrior. I know you have a brother in England who is deeply fond of you, but you do not seek his help, because he is a drunkard. I know you were injured fighting the Ottomans in Constantinople. And I know that your injury was not in your leg, though you favour it when walking. That is quite enough for now, I think. Is it not?”

John nodded tensely.

“I am William Scott Holmes, Earl of the South Downs. I am of the houses of Sherrinford and Vernet. I am sometimes called Sherlock, though not for my hair.” He grinned cockily as he spoke. “You will find me in the camp by my standard: a bee or, on a field sable. Good den, surgeon.” And with that, he turned on his heel and was gone.

* * *

John spent the night with his company, drinking ale until the fire burned down and listening to them boast of the feats of bravery that they would perform, and of the noble French prisoners they would capture and ransom for immense sums. They were still cheerful, and had taken little notice of the scores of ill men in the harbour awaiting either transportation home, or death. Long after the last of them had fallen asleep, John sat up and watched the ashes fade from glowing red to black. His sleep was often haunted by his own brave deeds, and the faces of the men he had killed in Constantinople, and James. He tried not to succumb to his need for rest.

But in the morning, he surprised himself by jolting awake, not to his memories, but to the sound of whetstones and cooking pots and horses impatiently stamping their hooves. The sun had risen at least an hour earlier, by its position in the sky. He bid his company a last farewell, and set off in the direction that the Earl of the South Downs had headed in the day before.

It was almost by chance that he found the right tent, just as he had nearly given up and headed back to his company. It was a small tent, rather dilapidated and unimpressive amongst its finer peers, with a tattered bee banner hanging on a crooked pole by the entrance.

John loudly cleared his throat and then awkwardly hesitated, waiting either for Lord Holmes to appear from within, or for one of the yeomen milling about to offer a suggestion about what to do.

“Just go in,” a bearded man said, at last taking pity on the stranger vacillating outside Lord Holmes’ tent. “He is not likely to be asleep. Slothful, more like.”

“Go… in?” John asked. “Won’t his lordship be angry…?”

The man rolled his eyes and carried on with his work, now choosing to ignore John.

John pushed aside the tent flap and ducked inside. Before his eyes had time to adjust to the darkness, a strong, burning, herbal aroma assaulted his nostrils and provoked a fit of coughing.

“I wondered how long you would stand out there,” said a voice, lazily floating through the dim, smoky air.

“Milord,” John coughed, as politely as he could. “Is that opium?”

“Mmm… from the East. You recognize it? Is it because you are a surgeon, or because you encountered it on your travels?” The voice appeared to be emanating from a bundle of blue rags atop what must have once been a very nice bed.

“Both,” John said.

“Both,” Sherlock vaguely echoed. “Splendid. And what do you think of my little home?”

John’s eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light. There were numerous, thick tapestries in riotous, clashing damasks hung from every surface and sealing the smoky atmosphere into the tent. Beside the cot were two wooden chairs and a small table, which could have been very fine indeed had his lordship not driven a dagger into it to fix a stack of vellum into place. Next to the dagger was a skull. John idly wandered whose it was.

“Friend of mine,” Sherlock said, sitting up and looking at where John’s gaze had wandered. “Well, when I say friend…”

“This… yes, this could be very nice,” John said.

“Could be?”

John bit his tongue.

“Yes, I suppose I could neaten things up a bit.” He stood, swinging to his feet with preternatural grace and wrenching the dagger from the table only to stick it, unsheathed, into his belt. “There is an extra cot, so you will not want for a place to sleep at night.”

John gawked. Him, share a tent with a lord? His mother, God rest her soul, would have fainted and died all over again if she could see him now. “Gramercy. But that is surely too generous, milord.”

“Nay, I want my surgeon to be on hand at all times,” Sherlock said. “And listen closely, for I will not repeat myself: call me Sherlock. It is my preferred name. I do not want to hear you call me ‘milord’, or ‘Lord Holmes’, or ‘Earl South Downs’, or any of that nonsense, again. It is absurd. I was not even meant to inherit…”

“Oh, I am sorry,” John said, startled. “Was it sudden, or was your eldest brother ill for a very…”

He was interrupted when the flap of Sherlock’s tent was pulled aside and a man with greying hair peered in. Sherlock’s posture abruptly straightened and he appeared to take on an air of imperiousness. “Where?”

“The marshes, due immediately west of the Duke of Clarence’s camp, and the Montivilliers Gate.”

Sherlock looked down his long nose, his eyes narrowing and flickering over the man. “What is different about this one?”

“You know how there is never a note?”

“Yes.”

“This one left a message. Will you come, or shall I alert –”

“No!” Sherlock said. “Tell no one.”

“Anderson found the body, so…”

Sherlock sighed impatiently. “Get him out of there. He is useless to me. And make sure he keeps his mouth shut. I do not care if you have to ply him with ale and French whores, so long as he does not say a thing to anybody! Do you understand me?”

The man nodded.

“I will be along shortly.”

And then the other man was gone, leaving Sherlock to excitedly scrabble around in the mess under his chair. “Oh, this is brilliant!” he said, babbling wildly at John as he struggled into his shoes. “Another suicide, and a note! They never leave notes… ignorant villeins… this one must be of a better sort of class. Oh, this is Christmas and Easter and Midsummer and Michaelmas, all in one! I might be awhile… John, do make yourself comfortable. There is bread, wine, cheese… somewhere. If only we were in London, my nurse Hudson would fetch it for you. Please, sit, John. You can rest your leg…”

“Damn my leg!” John shouted, involuntarily.

Sherlock paused, and John thought that he had crossed some fine line, and was in for a reprimand now. But Sherlock merely cocked his head curiously and crowded closer to him. John could smell the smoky residue of opium on him, in the wool of his doublet.

“I… I am so sorry,” John said, struggling not to tack an extra ‘milord’ onto the end of the sentence.

“You are a surgeon. And a soldier.”

“Yes. Yes, I once was.”

“Any good?”

“Very.”

“Seen a lot of battlefields… injuries… violent deaths…” Sherlock was so close now that John could feel his breath on his skin. He supressed a shiver, not of fear, but what he suspected was excitement.

“Mmm, yes. Enough for a lifetime.”

Sherlock paused, his eyes boring into John’s, and licking his lips like a contented cat who had just made a meal out of a mouse. “Want to see some more?”

“God help me, yes!”


	2. Chapter 2

The land turned to marsh northwest of the city. John grimaced as he felt cold mud ooze into his shoes, sending a shiver through him that the watery, late afternoon sun could not banish. Sherlock led the way, head held high and noble in spite of the fact that mud was almost certainly seeping into his shoes, too. John gritted his teeth, pondering how he had managed to find himself in this scenario.

“You have questions,” Sherlock placidly intoned, his voice a pleasant, deep rumble.

“Where are we going?”

“To see a body. Perhaps a suicide, if you believe the camp gossip. Next?”

“I am sorry, mil-” John caught himself. “Sherlock. Who are you, really?”

Sherlock stopped mid-stride and looked sharply at John. “Who do you think I am?”

“You are an Earl. But…”

Sherlock continued to frown at him. “But?”

“But lords do not concern themselves with the deaths of common men. At least, not suicides.”

“I am not like other lords.” Sherlock said, and John could not have agreed more. They resumed walking, or rather, sloshing through the ankle-deep sludge. The silence that stretched between them was strangely comfortable.  

John deeply inhaled. Outside of camp, the air was fresh and salty, and a chilly autumn breeze heralded the approach of a difficult winter. The season for campaigning was nearly at an end. John hoped the English would return home soon, at least safe from the treacheries of midwinter warfare, if not victorious.

Some distance off, a group of English soldiers with tall baskets were collecting shellfish from the mire. John could see three or four dead horses in a heap, not far from where the men worked. He shook his head forlornly. Where bodies were not buried or burned, disease was sure to ravage the population.

Sherlock watched John out of the corner of his eye. “You seem well-read concerning all manner of disease and injury.”

“Well enough,” John agreed.

“And what do you think of magical cures?”

John carefully thought about his answer. Magic could be quite a touchy subject for some people. Truly, it existed. But not in the way that people wanted, or expected, it to. At least, he had never met anyone who had either successfully performed it, or been cured by it. Magic and miracles were the prerogative of higher powers, not surgeons such as him. “I have read Henri de Mondeville’s treatise,” he at last said, “and that of Morstede, physician to our King. Mondeville says to use the magic cures, even if you know they will not work, in order that a patient may feel you have done everything possible for him. And to charge him more money. But Morstede says not to meddle with pointless cures, and I am inclined to think he is right.”

Sherlock nodded. “Thomas Morstede is a good physician. I will introduce you to him. But it is his assistant, Molly, who is the more brilliant of the two. Personally, I think the King would have done better to bring her along, and leave Morstede in England.”

“Molly? A woman?”

“She was a midwife,” Sherlock said. “But her ambition has led her to greater pursuits.”

“But a woman, on a battlefield?”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. “They are more accustomed than men to blood, and they have the delicate hands and steady fingers that even Morstede himself favours in his surgery apprentices.” He paused and chewed on his lower lip a little. “John, I am a man of a new age. I have read the philosophers, and listened to the stories of men who have travelled to the Far East, and corresponded with the greatest alchemists and artists of our day. I think you are of a like mind, or I would not have asked you to join my company.

“I am not concerned with conforming to tradition. Nor with the glory of battle, nor ransoming prisoners, nor being chivalrous to ladies. You must be content with the same. For my sole interest and preoccupation in life is to search for the truth.”

John suppressed a small smile. “The truth? What truth?”

“All truths.” Sherlock gave him a somewhat exasperated look. “When I met you yesterday, I immediately said that you had been in Constantinople. You looked surprised.”

John nodded. “Yes. How did you know?”

“I did not _know_ ,” Sherlock said. “I saw. The way you hold yourself, as though the musculature of your left arm was once over-developed from wielding a sword… I have seen former knights hold themselves in such a way. But your manner of dress and your deference do not suggest a nobleman. So, man-at-arms, not knight.

“Now, where did you serve? Ireland, with the deposed Richard? Or Shrewsbury, with old Henry the Fourth? You would have been of age, I think. But you were in training to be a surgeon then, were you not? For I know, from Lord Camoys’ surgeon, and from the fact that you carry a quill with you, that you are a man of learning.”

“Yes,” John quietly agreed.

“You gave up being a surgeon because of… some ridiculous notion about duty, perhaps. You were wounded in battle, but not in your leg, though you favour it. When you stand for a while, as you did in my tent, you forget it until someone reminds you that it is meant to hurt. Your ruddy complexion says you spent several years in bright sunlight – brighter than England, anyway – and the scars you bear on your sword hand are several years old. So where could a man-at-arms have been, in the last few years, to meet such conditions? In the east, crusading. Constantinople.”

John nodded.

“And then, there is your brother. He gave you your quill, did he not?

“The feather is from an unusual bird found only in Ethiop, and was surely imported at a great cost. Your simple doublet and hose suggest either that your own tastes are plainer, or that you cannot afford such a luxury. Thus it must be a gift, from someone close enough to you to be willing to spare such an expense. Not your father, whom I suspect was a humble and illiterate man. But a prosperous brother? Perchance. The nib has been trimmed multiple times, as if it has been heavily used, and the barbs are blemished with ink. You are neatly dressed and barbered, so I surmise that the quill must have come to you already in such a state, from a man wealthy enough to purchase it, and careless enough to ruin it. Probably because he is a drunkard.”

“How could you possibly know that?” John asked.

“Purely conjecture, though rather a good one, isn’t it? I have never seen a sober man with a sloppy quill, nor a drunk man with a tidy one.”

John stared at Sherlock, who looked away, feeling a bit shy and nervous all of a sudden.

“Amazing,” John said, his mouth dumbly hanging open.

Sherlock turned back to John, his forehead creased in bewilderment and his eyes strangely bright and plaintive. “Do you think so?”

“Truly! It is extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say,” Sherlock darkly said, looking away.

“Hmm. Right. What do people normally say?”

Sherlock turned back and gave John a small, hesitant smile. “I was accused of witchcraft, once.”

John, despite all efforts to keep a straight face, burst into laughter.

* * *

As they forded a stream, Sherlock keeping a firm hold on John to prevent him from slipping into the muck, he asked, “Was I right? About Constantinople, and your injury, and your brother?”

“Yes. I spent four years fighting in the east,” John conceded. “And I was pierced by an Ottoman blade. Not in the leg, though it troubles me more now than my original wound. And Harry is a drunkard.”

Sherlock delightedly smiled. “Splendid. I hardly expected to be right about everything.”

“Harry is short for Harriet,” John said.

“A sister!” Sherlock huffed.

“And I did not give up surgery for crusading because of silly notions about honour and duty,” John said. His voice was soft, but his tone firmly implied that the conversation was over. Sherlock looked at him with a peculiar expression, but John frowned and said no more.

They finally reached the body: a tall, thin man resting face down in the marsh. The grey-haired man from before stood nearby, accompanied by a tall, bearded man and a slender boy with curly hair and smooth, dark skin. John was surprised by the boy, but did not stare. He had met people from Africa before, including two monks from Egypt passing through Constantinople on pilgrimage.

“Hallo, hag,” the boy sneered. John was a little taken aback by his disrespectful tone.

“Good den, Sally,” Sherlock drawled. John did stare now, eyeing the boy up and down until he suddenly realised that, though the disguise was excellent, she was a woman.

“ _Salvator_ ,” the woman – Sally – hissed, her eyes darting nervously to John.

“John won’t tell anyone anything, Salvator,” Sherlock mocked. “Besides, I believe it would cause much more of a stir in camp if he said that Philip Anderson and his page Salvator were sodomites.”

John’s heart fluttered, and Sally gasped, and the man, Anderson, stepped forward and angrily raised his hand.

“Philip,” the grey-haired man murmured. “You forget your place. You cannot strike a lord.”

“Even when he deserves it?” Philip growled, breathing heavily through his nose.

The man scowled at Sherlock. “Even then.”

“I… I deserve it? And you, with a wife and two babes at home, and a mistress arrayed as a man in camp,” Sherlock sneered. “I thought I told you, Lestrade, that I wanted him gone by the time I arrived. He always ruins everything.”

“He found the body, Sherlock. I told him to keep watch so it would not be looted,” Lestrade explained. “Everything is as it was found. Is that not to your liking?”

Sherlock scowled, but seemed appeased. “For your troubles,” he said, reaching into the purse on his belt, and throwing a coin at Sally’s feet. It floated for a moment, and then sank into the silt. Sally did not even bow her head to look at it, instead keeping her gaze resolutely fixed on Sherlock.

“We’re going now,” she glowered, turning to leave and tugging on Anderson’s shirtsleeve as he stooped to retrieve the coin. But she looked back at John and imparted a final warning. “I do not know who you are, or why you are here. But stay away from him,” she pointed to Sherlock. “Stay away from Lord Holmes. He is no friend to you. He is cursed.”

* * *

Sherlock knelt in the scummy water and inspected the man’s body, while the greying man introduced himself to John as Gregory Lestrade, a captain of Sherlock’s company. He seemed almost apologetic about his surname, explaining to John that his father had been French.

“I was born in Scotland, too, and so am sometimes called Greg of Scotland,” he grinned. “Which I suppose makes me doubly the enemy of the English. But truly, London is my home, and my fealty lies with King Henry. And this fool,” he said, nodding at Sherlock with something almost approaching affection. “I have served him now for five years.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock called. “You are most bothersome today, Lestrade. Even when you are silent, your thoughts are irritating.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes at John. “Do you not want to see the message, milord? It was clutched in the hand when Anderson found the body. I was able to lift it from his fingers without disturbing anything.”

Sherlock held out his hand, not even looking up. With John trailing, Greg sloshed over and presented him with a small scrap of curled parchment. Sherlock flattened it against his knee and hummed contemplatively.

“What is it?” John asked, straining for a look.

“Greek,” Sherlock said, holding it up for John to see. One corner had obviously been dampened by the marsh water, so that the ink had run and the words were smeared and illegible. As for the rest of the writing, John picked out a few strange letters that he recognised from his travels in the East, but did not understand what they said.

Sherlock clearly did, though, as he scanned the words and nodded to himself. Then, he tucked the scrap into purse. “I do not think our dead archer here wrote this note. He was not a man of letters, so far as I can tell.”

“Archer?” John asked.

Sherlock lifted the corpse’s hand from the mud. “Look at the callouses on his fingers, and the great sinews of his shoulders. Exactly what you would expect of an archer. But no callouses where a quill would rest against his hand.” Shoving one hand deep into the muck under the man’s body, he heaved until it was lying face up. “And then there’s the badge on his chest. Quarterly, first and fourth France ancien, second and third England, within a bordure Argent. That is the Duke of Gloucester’s coat of arms. I think, if we were to go back to camp, we would find his ranks of longbowmen short one member.”

“Then where did the message come from? And what does it say?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock thoughtfully chewed on his lip. “John, what do you think?”

“Of the message?”

“Of the body,” Sherlock said.

John's brow furrowed, and he knelt beside Sherlock. The body lacked any obvious wounds or signs of self-harm that he would have expected with a suicide. It could be poison, though, he thought, leaning forward to smell the corpse’s mouth.

“Dwale,” he said. “He smells of dwale. Could have stolen it from a surgeon’s tent, drank it… passed out face down in the mud and died.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You know what it is. You’ve heard the talk around camp.”

“The fourth suicide.”

Sherlock’s expression was almost gleeful. “The others smelled of dwale, too, though there is no obvious medical reason any of them should have needed it. And they are drinking it voluntarily, for none have shown signs of a struggle. But this man… as you say, he passed out in the swamp, though on his back. When he did not die, and there were signs he might revive, then someone turned him over and left him to drown. Did you notice the dried mud on his back when we got here? The body was disturbed from its initial resting place.”

“Brilliant,” John remarked, provoking a stare, and a slight flush across Sherlock’s angular face. “Sorry.”

“Hmm. Yes. Well. Lestrade gives us his word that he, and Anderson, left everything untouched. But if that is the case, where is his quiver and bow?” He gave Lestrade a sharp look.

“There was no quiver, or bow,” Lestrade said, shrugging.

“Only a fool would leave camp both unaccompanied and without his quiver and bow,” Sherlock said. “Or perhaps a knife. For there are vengeful Frenchmen lurking in the countryside, just waiting for a solitary Englishman to stumble across their path.”

“He was unarmed when Anderson found him,” Lestrade insisted.

“No, that’s not right,” Sherlock said, jumping to his feet. “He must have been armed. He would have carried his bow, and his quiver embossed with the Gloucester’s coat of arms… and when he died…”

John staggered much less gracefully to his feet.

“Oh!” Sherlock gasped. “Oh, I know now!”

“Sherlock?” John said hesitantly.

“The archer and the killer… they met here voluntarily… both men armed… the archer drank the dwale, passed out… the killer took his weapons…”

“Sherlock, the sun will set soon,” Lestrade interrupted.

“The killer made a most unfortunate mistake!” Sherlock said. “How untidy… but, truly, the only way to catch a killer like this is to wait for him to sink to slovenliness.”

“What?” John said.

“Gloucester’s coat of arms!” Sherlock laughed. And then, without warning, he began to sprint across the marsh, headed in the direction of the sea. John had no hope of keeping up with him, and so he watched until Sherlock’s form was obscured by dunes.

“He does that sometimes,” Lestrade said conversationally.

“Will he come back?” John asked.

“Not likely. It would be best for you to head back to camp. He might not turn up for a day or two,” Lestrade warned.

John licked his lips. “Right.”

“I myself have business in the Duke of Clarence’s camp,” Lestrade explained. “So I will leave you now, and bid you good e’en.”

“The body…?”

“I will send someone to retrieve it,” Lestrade said. And then he set out for the other English camp, to the northeast of the city.

John looked down one more time at the body of the archer, and murmured a swift prayer for his soul. As he began the long, painful walk back to the camp, he found himself shivering, but not because of the wind whistling across the marsh from the sea.

* * *

As he rounded the derelict barbican of the Leure Gate, and the sun sank huge and orange on the horizon, John nearly walked headlong into a freewoman carrying a basket of bread.

“Pardon me!” he exclaimed, trying to weave out of her way.

“ _Non, ce n’est rien!_ ” she said.

“Oh. Oh!” John said, realising that the woman was French. “Um… _je suis désolé?”_

She laughed. “You are the surgeon called _Jean_?”

John nodded, confused. “ _Jean_? Yes, John. I am called John.”

“Come wiz me.”

There were numerous reasons why John thought he should just ignore the woman and hurry on to camp before night fell, but he had to admit to himself that he was curious. And she was a very pretty woman, too, with curly hair peeking out from under her cap. Not unlike Sherlock’s hair… lovely and thick and dark… He abruptly realised the direction his thoughts had wandered with a flush of shame.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Ah… Anthea,” she replied.

John thought about this for a moment. “Is that really your name?”

The woman smiled. “ _Non!”_

“Where are you taking me?”

Her smile merely deepened.

The sun hovered on the horizon, and the campfires some distance off seemed delightfully inviting. The woman stopped walking and pointed, to the salty river meandering into Harfleur’s harbour. “Zey are waiting for you.”

John peered into the darkness. He could just make out two cloaked forms on the banks. “Who?” he asked, but the woman had already disappeared. He rested his hand on the knife in his belt, swallowed nervously, and proceeded forward.

“Are you tired? Do you need to rest before we speak?” a man’s voice called out to him from one of the cloaked figures.

“No, I am well,” John said, pretending that he wasn’t exhausted from his long walk through the marshes, and that his leg did not hurt.

“Good.” The first cloaked figure stepped forward, allowing John to just make out the face of a man with a high forehead and a hawkish nose in the weak light. His voice was aristocratic, but John did not let that intimidate him.

“I would like to know what you want from me,” he said. “And why you could not have found me in camp, if you were so desperate to speak with me.”

“When one is avoiding the attention of Lord Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet. Hence, this place. Are you certain your leg is not hurting you?”

“Yes.”

The cloaked man cocked his head curiously. “Hmm. You do not seem very afraid.”

“And you do not seem very frightening,” John shot back. It was not the wisest thing he could have said, but the man simply chuckled.

His silent companion restlessly readjusted his cloak. In the dying light of dusk, John could now see a little of his face. For a brief moment, John was struck by his youth and the elegance of his profile. And then he turned forward, and John nearly recoiled. Only his battlefield experience prevented him from doing so. The right side of the man’s face was horribly disfigured with a large, pitted scar, extending cheekbone to nose. The man, sensing John’s stare, pulled his hood a little lower over his face.

“The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, do you not think?” the first man chortled to himself, but then sombrely bowed his head to the silent man. “Ah. You would disagree, do you not? _Me paenitet_.”

The man wordlessly inclined his head in reply.

“Hmm. Well, John of London. What is your connection to the Earl of the South Downs?”

“Sherlock? I barely know him. I met him yesterday.”

“Yes, and yet you call him by his favoured _soubriquet_. And have joined his company, and are to live in his tent and investigate the camp suicides with him.”

“I am indentured to him as surgeon for the remainder of this campaign, and he has asked for me to remain close,” John said, gritting his teeth. He felt uncomfortably warm all of a sudden, and had to fight the impulse to place his hand on his knife. “Apologies, but… who are you?”

“An interested party.”

“Interested? Why? I do not think you are his friend.”

“How many friends do you imagine he has?” the man sneered. “No, I am the closest thing to a friend that the Earl is capable of having.”

“And what is that?”

“An enemy.” John thought he saw a flash of white teeth under the man’s hood.

“An enemy?”

“Truly. At least, that is what he believes. Whereas you, John of London, have a goodly number of friends, of a sort. Do you not?”

John uncomfortably shifted from foot to foot.

“Sir James Sholto. You consider him your friend?”

John inhaled sharply. “I did. Yes. Before his death. I was proud to call him my friend.”

“Hmm… friend. And a bit more.” The man paused. “We know all about Sir James Sholto, John Watson.”

John took a step backwards. “I think I should leave now.”

“Do you plan to move forward with this association with Lord Sherlock? Live in his tent, be at his every beck and call?”

“I think that is none of your business.”

“But it could be.” The man reached for something at his belt, and John swiftly drew his knife. The man held up one hand consolingly. John could hear the clink of coins in a bag when he moved. “I would be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis for information about Sherlock Holmes.

Ah, John thought. French spies. The freewoman… the silent man in the cloak… for all he knew, the man who spoke to him was French, as well, but had spent enough time in England to acquire an almost native accent. Or, he was simply a traitorous Englishman. John sheathed his knife, debating if it would be better to stay and gather more information about these men, or leave before he became entangled in something regrettable. He favoured the latter, but allowed himself to ask another question. “Why? Why would you pay me, I mean?”

“You are not a wealthy man.”

“And what information do you want from me?”

“Nothing… indiscreet. Just tell me about the Earl’s activities, and interests...”

“Why?”

“I worry about him. Constantly. But, I would like my concern to go unmentioned.”

John snorted. “How good of you, to worry. But… no.”

“I have yet to mention a sum,” the man said.

“Nay. Gramercy. But I am not interested.”

“You are very loyal, very quickly.”

“Nay, I am not.” John took a few steps back, intending to make a break for it, but the man advanced on him.

“You trust Sherlock Holmes. Of all people,” he said.

“Who says I trust him?”

The man reached for his hand, and John pulled it away. “Doubtless, you have already been warned to stay away from the Earl. But I can see from your left hand that you will not.”

“What?”

“Show me.”

John held his left hand up, near enough for the cloaked man to see, but still held far enough back that he would not touch.

“Hmm. Remarkable. You know, most men believe they want to partake in the chaos of the battlefield. But once they have had a taste of it, it sickens them. Whereas, you… you only _think_ the battlefield sickens you. Deep down, perhaps in some corner of your soul you do not care to admit you have… and there are many of those corners… you miss it.

“Your hand trembles, does it not? But not now. You think you are in danger, and you love it. Look. Your hand has never been steadier.

“Sherlock has that effect on people. Affrights them. But you need that. You need _him_.”

John stopped breathing for a moment. “Who are you?” he spat again, letting his hand drop back to his knife.

The man turned and began to stroll away, his silent companion joining him. They were headed in the direction of the harbour. Nearly out of earshot, the man turned back and shouted a parting phrase.

“Wilcume, John Watson, to France!”


	3. Chapter 3

Night fell, and the English camp settled into an uneasy stillness. Those men that could retreated to their tents to avoid the noxious nocturnal miasmata. The less fortunate sprawled next to campfires, restlessly stirring at stew pots and swapping crude stories, occasional fragments of which echoed through the smoke and fog, though there was little accompanying laughter. And everywhere: the low sound of men groaning and the foul stench of bloody flux. From a distance, he saw Mike administering to a man, and elsewhere, a priest offering last rites.

Roasting meat, an odour John usually associated with a camped army, was conspicuously absent from the riot of scents that hung low in the atmosphere. Everywhere, it seemed, men dined on bland vegetables and leaves and the day’s collection of shellfish. There was hardly enough bread to go around, a sight that prompted John to woefully shake his head. Everyone knew that an army marched on its stomach, and when the humours of every man in that army were doubtlessly, dangerously imbalanced by an unhealthy diet… it was really no wonder that disease had run so rampant.

Lestrade had already returned from the Duke of Clarence’s camp, clear on the other side of the city, when John finally located Sherlock’s tent again. The older man sat outside, gnawing on a chunk of stale bread and washing it down with a mug of ale.

He grinned at John. “You took your time. The French whores have their attractions, I grant you. But they are riddled with disease.”

John couldn’t manage anything more than a rather wan smile in reply. “And we English are not?”

Lestrade’s expression dimmed a little. “Ah. Fair enough, sirrah. Bread?”

“Nay,” John said. He had barely eaten all day. But he was still strong – well, strong compared to the men who had suffered through the siege. He could go without, for a time. “Gramercy.”

Lestrade could barely conceal his relief at John’s refusal. “Milord has returned, if you were wondering…”

“So soon?” John asked. “I thought you told me not to expect him for a day or two.”

Lestrade shrugged. “He is changeable, Lord Holmes. He carried a quiver when he arrived, but spoke to no one.”

“A quiver? Do you think… _the_ quiver?” John fidgeted a little with the end of one sleeve. How could Sherlock have possibly found something so small, so quickly, in such a large and Godforsaken swamp? After the events of the evening, it was a little uncomfortable to think about.

“What troubles you?” Lestrade asked.

John dropped his sleeve and tried to resume a more military bearing. “I… it is hardly worth saying… but… I did not go into Harfleur tonight, for the whores. I meant to return here, directly. But I was waylaid by a Frenchwoman who led me to the river, to speak with two cloaked men. That is to say, one of them spoke, and the other was silent. The one who spoke – he had an English accent, to be sure. But he pressed me for information about Sherlock, and offered me money if I would speak.”

“What did this man look like?”

“He never removed his hood, but he was tall and had a long nose and high forehead. And the other man’s face was terribly scarred. Here.” John gestured to his own cheek and nose. “I… I thought they might be French spies.”

“Perhaps,” Lestrade said quietly. “I will look into the matter. Discreetly. For Lord Holmes has many enemies.”

“Good,” John said. His heart felt a little lighter from sharing the events of the night. “I… I will retire now. Sherlock has offered me a place in his own tent.” He felt the need, for some reason, to explain. But Lestrade was neither surprised nor scandalised by his declaration, merely turning back to his mug of ale and contentedly taking a sip.

John lingered for a moment longer outside. He sincerely doubted that he would ever feel at ease in among the finery of a lord’s tent. And this lord in particular… who saw so much, and was therefore capable of great harm.

But he squared his shoulders like the soldier he once was, and entered.

Again, almost immediately, he was assaulted by the cloying aroma of opium. Sherlock was sprawled on his bed: shoeless and shirtless despite the chill, eyes shut and face slack, and hands tucked neatly under his chin, like a monk in prayer – though surely no monk had ever looked so debauchedly unholy. Since he made no move to acknowledge his arrival, John wondered if he was in such a state that he had not even noticed.

John let the moment drag on for longer than necessary. The pale, narrow planes of Sherlock’s chest reminded him of the marble statues he had seen in the East: long-forgotten pagan gods and demigods and emperors of old. If anyone could have haughtily shouldered his way into their ranks and declared himself divine, surely it would be Lord Holmes, John thought. In the flickering light of tapers and the small brazier on which the opium burned, he looked almost otherworldly.

“Well?” Sherlock’s voice was a low, husky growl: not unpleasant, but a little impatient.

John noisily cleared his throat and swung his arms against his sides, as though he had just entered. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock lazily opened his eyes. “Thinking. The opium helps me.”

“In too great a quantity, it turns wise men into fools,” John said mildly, looking around the cluttered tent for something to extinguish the brazier with. “And I can hardly breathe in here, with the smoke so thick. How do you manage it?”

“Oh, breathing,” Sherlock sighed, languidly closing his eyes. “Breathing is boring.”

While John had been occupied elsewhere in the camp, two clay bowls and wooden trenchers had appeared among the scattered parchments and herbs and sundries that already filled the table. John picked up one bowl and used it to smother the gently smoking opium.

“Hey!” Sherlock indignantly protested, sitting up.

“As your surgeon, I think you have had enough of this particular indulgence for tonight.”

Sherlock scowled, but made no move to stop him. “Angelo will not be pleased with what you did to his bowl.”

“Angelo?”

“My cook.”

As if cued, a heavyset man with a luxuriant beard peered into the tent. “Sherlock!” His voice was heavily accented, though it was not an accent John could readily place.

Sherlock stood and pulled aside the tent flap, motioning for the man to enter. He bore a heavy tray laden with fresh bread, and two overflowing mugs of wine, and a full capon smothered in black sauce and accompanied by heaps of currants and nuts, sticky with honey. After the dire situation John had seen in camp, so much rich food was rather shocking.

“This is Angelo,” Sherlock said, as if that explained everything. “Angelo, this is John, my new surgeon.”

“ _Mio signore_ got me off a _murder_ charge,” Angelo said, good-naturedly grinning as he wedged the dish of capon between the skull and the dagger.

“Three years ago, in Florence, Angelo was working as a cook in Cosimo de’ Medici’s kitchens when he was accused of poisoning a man. I was able to prove that, on the day of the murder, Angelo was instead mugging travellers on a road leading into the city.”

“He cleared my name!” Angelo said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I cleared it a bit.”

“I would have _hung_ , if not for him!”

“You still would have hung, if you had not attached yourself to my party, and I had not hastily withdrawn from the city.”

“ _Il mio patrono!_ ” Angelo said, gazing fondly at Sherlock with all the gentleness of a lamb. His expression threateningly darkened as he turned to John. “Be good to him, sirrah. He needs _someone_ to keep an eye on him.” Then, with a deep bow to Sherlock, he departed.

“Eat, John,” Sherlock said, waving a hand at the food as he retreated once again to his bed. John could not recall ever having met a more slothful person in his life. “You are hungry, are you not?”

John bit his lower lip. “Yes, but…”

“You will be little use to me, or the men, if you starve.”

John shook his head. “I… Sherlock, you eat better than the King himself. This borders on the obscene.”

“I assure you the King and his companions are not starving.”

“But… eat something. Just a little. Please.”

Sherlock had retrieved a strange, stringed instrument from the floor beside the bed, and absently bowed a few notes. “My opium and my vielle are the only stimulation I need when my mind is occupied with a problem, such as these suicides. Digestion will only slow me down. Besides, the saints prescribe fasting, do they not?”

“Yes, but you do not seem like the sort of man who takes saints’ advice very seriously.”

Sherlock coyly smiled, as John sank into a chair at the table and helplessly surveyed the spread of food.

“Have a bite, at least,” he wheedled Sherlock, “so I may feel that I, as a man of medicine, have done _something_ for you. And give some to Lestrade, or another of your men if you prefer, so it does not go to waste. Truly, I will not be able to finish this on my own.”

Sherlock leaned out of bed just enough to grab a fistful of bread, which he sulkily crammed into his mouth. “Are you content?”

“Not nearly,” John smiled. “But it will do, for now. So… a _vielle_. Is that what you call that instrument? I have never seen one like it.”

Sherlock hypnotically stroked his fingers up and down the wooden neck. “Yes. It is something like a rebec, though I find its tone deeper and nobler. Shall I play for you while you eat?”

John nodded and reached for a mug of wine. It was extraordinary stuff – much better than the cheap swill he and Mike had drank in Harfleur the day before. The sound of the music filled the tent, low and solemn and soothing. After a while, fingers sticky with honey and stomach pleasantly full of capon and bread and wine, John leaned back in his chair, shut his eyes, and sighed. Sherlock drew the bow a final time against the strings, and let the last note reverberate and fade.

“You are troubled.” Sherlock said, breaking the silence.

John opened his eyes. “I met an enemy of yours tonight.”

Sherlock smirked, undisturbed by the news. “Oh? Which one?”

“Two men, actually, in long cloaks. I didn’t get their names.” John paused, and tilted his head in curiosity. “Why do you say ‘which one’? How many enemies do you have?”

“A goodly number,” Sherlock said, echoing Lestrade’s earlier comment. “Did they offer you money?”

“Yes.”

“Did you take it?”

“No.”

Sherlock shook his head. “More’s the pity. We could have split it, if you had. Think it through next time.”

John snorted. “So you know them?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, turning away and intently staring at a damask tapestry. “They are very powerful, and very dangerous, and not my problem right now.”

Reluctant to let the subject entirely drop, John fumbled for another question. “What about friends? Or family? You had a brother…”

“Dull,” Sherlock sighed.

John frowned. Most noblemen that he had met could not stop talking about their illustrious families. “Do you not have a wife and children? Or, a betrothed?”

“No.”

“Really?” John was a little surprised. If Sherlock’s brother had died, surely he was eager to beget his own heir.

“Not really my area…” Sherlock trailed off.

“Oh, right,” John said. He hadn’t taken Sherlock for the religiously celibate type.

“John, are you quite certain this is a line of questioning you want to pursue?” Sherlock had turned back to John, and was examining him with those sharp, pale, disconcerting eyes.

John swallowed nervously. “No, perhaps not.”

Sherlock gently placed the vielle aside and hugged his knees to his chest. “If you must know, I consider myself married to my work.”

“Ah. Your all-consuming quest for the truth,” John said, nodding in comprehension.

“Yes.” Sherlock suspiciously watched John from his post on the bed. “I know it is difficult, for someone who has loved as deeply as you have, to believe that there are people in this world like me, who are so _rarely_ interested in carnal pursuits…”

John flushed. He could feel the warmth spreading all the way down to his collar. “Who said anything about love?”

Sherlock scoffed. “It is obvious. And moreover, I know that it was _illicit_ love.”

John pushed his chair away from the table and stood. “You speak of things you know nothing about.”

“Your lover could have been a noblewoman… that, too, is forbidden to you.” Sherlock thoughtfully folded his hands under his chin. “But, no. Your lover was a man.”

John almost knocked the chair over as he took a step back. “You are mistaken.”

“I am not,” Sherlock calmly said. “You became flustered earlier, when I mentioned sodomy to Anderson and Sally. Oh, do not worry. It is not particularly obvious, except to me. And, I have seen your gaze linger on certain men in the camp. And me. _Mostly_ me.”

John wished there was a way for him to disappear into the earth. “I… I…”

“Do not apologize,” Sherlock said, anticipating him.

“Jesu,” John swore. “It is a _sin_. An unnatural act… that is what the clergy say.”

“It scarcely matters to me.”

John was breathing hard, in spite of his efforts to keep calm. “Really? You are just going to stand there and proclaim it does not matter? I could be executed if you chose to betray me.”

“I know. But I will not do so. You are… useful to me. And I am in sympathy with you, being something of a sodomite myself, when I _do_ crave physical stimulation. That is to say… I’m not entirely opposed to your interest.”

John violently started. “What?”

“You heard me,” Sherlock drawled. “I won’t repeat it again.”

“But… Philip Anderson and the woman, Sally… you threatened to spread a rumour that _they_ are sodomites.”

Sherlock bit his lower lip. “Yes.”

“Why… why would you do that?”

“That is too complicated a tale to tell now. Are you satisfied, though? Do you believe I won’t send you to your death for being in love with a man?”

“Yes. That is… fine. Just fine.” John made an effort to relax, sharply exhaled, and gestured to the remaining food on the table. “Lestrade, or someone, will want this…”

“Indeed,” Sherlock said, scrubbing a hand resignedly over his face and watching John duck outside.

But Lestrade had vanished in the meanwhile, and could not be found anywhere in the vicinity of the tent. Wandering among the campfires, John eventually found Anderson and Sally huddled together, half-asleep and shivering. Pity surged through him.

“The Earl sends this to you,” John said, kneeling and setting the food and remaining mug of wine between them.

“Doubt it,” Sally mumbled, her lips tinged with blue. Anderson scoffed and turned away.

“Still,” John insisted. “Take it. The wine will warm you. And you must eat, and keep your strength. For the King and Captain Lestrade and each other, if for nothing else.”

Anderson nodded and reached a trembling hand for the mug of the wine. “Gramercy, sirrah.”

John slowly walked back to Sherlock’s tent, debating whether he should return at all. On one hand, he so rarely met other men who would admit to sharing his… _proclivities_ … that it was thrilling to meet someone like Sherlock, who was attractive and wealthy and suddenly – amazingly – seemed quite attainable, if one could get over how shockingly _cold_ he could also be. After all, John had been lonely and grieving for a very long time, and even cold comfort _was_ comfort, of a sort.

On the other hand, each time that he sought out a new lover – and there _had_ been a number of meaningless, lust-driven encounters with men and women over the past couple of years – it felt like a little betrayal of the man he had loved the most: James. Dearly departed James. And, whereas Sherlock could apparently wrangle his way out of witchcraft accusations, it would be another thing entirely for someone as lowly and insignificant as John to be accused of sodomy.

With a deep breath to steady his nerves, he resigned himself to the difficult situation that awaited him.

Sherlock had relit the opium in the short time that John was gone, but he did not have the heart to repeat the scene from earlier, so he let it be and joined the Earl at the table.

“Tell me about Constantinople,” Sherlock said, pulling his feet up onto the chair and resting his chin on his knees. It was fascinating to see how someone so tall and angular could fold into such a small space.

“You have travelled,” John pointed out. “You said so yourself. You have been to Florence.”

“But no further East than that.”

John licked his lips as he tried to remember. It was not easy, not after several years of trying to forget. “The summers are hot in Constantinople, and the winters as mild as the English springtide,” he began. “The sun burns with fury, so bright you think you might be in Heaven. But it also makes unaccustomed men ill. I did not know until too late, and then spent a feverish, delirious week in bed. Even the touch of linen made my skin blister and boil.

“The city is enclosed in a high wall, with many battlements, and a harbour. Not unlike Harfleur,” he continued with a wry smile. “Then, there is the great cathedral where the Eastern kings are crowned. It is the third church to stand on the site, and though it has been sacked many times, and lost some of its majesty, it still takes my breath away to think of it. They say the ancient Roman emperors commanded its construction, and I believe it. It feels like a place where many men and emperors and gods have lived, and died. Have you ever seen anything like it? I hear the basilica in Rome compares…”

Sherlock shook his head.

John paused and inhaled, remembering the distinctive aromas of Constantinople. “And everywhere, there is the scent of the sea and sand, and of pine and cedar, and of spices I do not know the names of…. The women – and men, too – perfume themselves with oils from the Far East, so that their skin glistens, and the fragrance disperses under the sun…

“I have been told that, further to the East, there are strange monsters, such as you cannot imagine… dragons and unicorns and the like… and antipodean men, and men who go about their lives with their heads fixed on backwards. And mountains of gold. Do you think such a thing is possible?”

Sherlock looked down and thoughtfully drummed his fingers against his knee. “I think… it is improbable. But not impossible.”

The tapers in the tent burned low, one by one sputtering into darkness as the men sank into a quiet peace. The wine in his stomach and the heady smoke wafting through the air made John’s head feel heavy and strange. He was fighting a losing battle against the need to sleep.

Sherlock unfolded his long legs, stretching like a cat and invading John’s personal space. “You loved it.”

John nodded.

“You still do. You would have stayed there. You never wanted to return to England, did you?”

Sherlock reached out and took John’s jaw in his hand, turning his head this way and that, inspecting him, staring at – no, _through_ – him... it should have been unpleasant, to be under such intense scrutiny, and John should have flinched and pulled away. But he did not.

“What am I to make of you, John Watson? _Car no vol so c’om deu voler, e so c’om li deveda, fai._ ”

“That song is about a woman.”

“You know it?”

John raised an eyebrow.

“Well, it is still pertinent. More or less.” And then he drew forward, his hand still resting on John’s jawline, until their lips met. For a brief moment, the only thing John was aware of was the smoothness of Sherlock’s lips against his, and the humid warmth of his breath in his mouth. “You taste like Constantinople,” Sherlock breathed.

“You cannot possibly know that,” John sighed, and leaned further into Sherlock’s touch. Everything felt a bit dreamlike and soft and pleasant.

“But I do.” Sherlock raised his other hand, changing the angle at which John’s head tilted, and deepening the kiss. John felt himself mirroring his movements, stroking Sherlock’s sharp jawline, and then running his hands through the wild hair that hung low over the nape of the other man’s neck.

“Come. The bed,” Sherlock growled.

John laughed a little as he was tugged to his feet. “An Earl’s bed. And I thought I would be lucky to have a straw mattress on the ground to sleep on tonight.”

Sherlock stripped back the coverlet, and was in the process of undoing his hosen, when he paused. “Does it matter to you very much, that I am noble?”

“I think I would be a fool if I did not consider the consequences of this,” John said, vaguely gesturing at the bed as he pulled his shirt over his head. “But, no, I care not if you are common or a king, Sherlock.” He dropped the shirt on the floor of the tent, looked up, and swore. “Oh, _sard_.”

Only two burning tapers remained on the table. Sherlock stood in the dim light, completely bare, both faintly blushing and defiantly glaring as he waited for John to undress. It surprised John that the man was capable of any degree of embarrassment whatsoever. There was nothing for him to be ashamed of, anyway: an expanse of pale skin, like the cream that rose to the surface of fresh milk; and lithely muscular limbs; and a dark swathe of curls at the base of his cock. John felt rather plain in comparison, as he rounded the bed and laid his hands against Sherlock’s chest, fingers splayed across the delicate _claviculae_. The expression on Sherlock’s face was hungry, though, and he showed no signs of being appalled by the horrible, sunken scar in John’s left shoulder, or the way he smelled faintly of the swamp, or the dirt encrusted under his fingernails. If anything, he seemed fascinated as he dropped his chin to examine John’s hands, and placed a kiss on his worn knuckles.

Reality pleasantly blurred at the edges as they sank onto the mattress together. It smelled of wool and linen and Sherlock’s own smoky, inky musk, and the bolsters were soft under John’s head as the Earl straddled his hips with a small smile. John contentedly sighed.

“Like an angel…”

“Blasphemy,” Sherlock hummed, licking a wet stripe over the vein that ran down John’s neck. The sensation ran down his body in a shiver, straight to his cock.

“Not that it matters,” John replied, with some effort. “Fine. All… fine. _Good_.” The words congealed on his tongue. Normal speech and breathing were becoming rather difficult, what with Sherlock working his hosen down his hips, and single-mindedly grinding against him.

“You do not understand,” Sherlock murmured. “Everyone is so vacant… you, too. You are an idiot.” He stopped fumbling with the drawstring of John’s braies for a moment, and John made a soft, disgruntled noise, prompted as much from the loss of contact as from the slight. “Oh, do not be upset, John. Practically _everyone_ is! Compared to me…. But, there is something about you… I cannot understand it… I want to take you apart like the Salisbury clock – piece by piece – and figure out just what makes you tick.”

John thickly swallowed. “I should clout you for that.”

“Will you?” Sherlock looked genuinely interested.

“No,” John gasped. “Not now. Not if you stop delaying and get to it, _this instant_.”

“Perhaps later, then,” Sherlock said dispassionately, as he finally worked John’s leaking cock free of his braies, and grasped it against his own in one hand. The only sensible thought in John’s head was that the sensation of their bare bodies thrusting together was agonisingly pleasurable: a maddening, hot slickness. And then Sherlock leaned down – the hollows in his cheeks made prominent by the light of the last burning taper – and sank his teeth into John’s scarred shoulder. The taper abruptly extinguished itself with a hiss, and John let out a shout, or perhaps it was a sob of pain, as he spilled over into Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock released him, rolling away onto the bed, and John dazedly listened to him finish with a smothered groan.

At last, in the perfect darkness of the tent, he fell asleep to the sound of Sherlock’s breath slowly returning to normal.

* * *

_– the light is golden and hazy as it rises on the horizon, and there is a slight breeze coming from the southeast, stirring the leaves in the trees and the long grasses that line the road… dust… the omnipresent dust… swirls over his boots… his breastplate could stand to be polished, too, when he gets a spare moment… there are dark-haired beauties labouring in the fields, skirts tucked up over shapely, bronzed thighs as they hoe the fields… blushing and smiling at him, though he only has eyes for the man ahead of him, astride a bay courser, helm gleaming in the light… he dismounts, hand on the pommel of his sword… points to an Ottoman camp some distance off… smiling at John, with those limpid blue eyes… suddenly… blood, blood… God… so much blood, where is it all coming from? is it raining from the skies, or bubbling up from someplace inside of him? he is covered in it, they are drowning in it… James is falling to pieces under his fingers as he tries to hold onto him, hold him together… he disintegrates into pieces… smaller and smaller all the time… and then there is nothing there and John is bobbing on a wave of blood, always more blood… he is screaming and it flows into his mouth and chokes him so he cannot breathe and then he is gagging and some strange man with dark, curly hair is watching with cold curiosity from afar dear God dear Mary queen of heaven why is he just standing there why will he not help lord Jesu he has the same eyes the same blue eyes those eyes belong to James who is this man why does he torment me so why will he not reach out a hand and save me help me no no no please God let me live –_


	4. Chapter 4

John thrashed back to wakefulness, confused and frightened as he sank into the too-soft mattress.

“Breathe,” a voice called, from very nearby. “John, _breathe_. You are in Harfleur. This is not Constantinople.” There was a sigh, distant and far above John as he clambered back to consciousness. “ _De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine. Domine, exuadi vocem meam. Fiant aures tuae intendentes in vocem_ … oh, forget it.” The bed dipped next to him, and a hand came to rest on his damaged shoulder.

“James?” John groggily asked, clasping the hand and trying to focus his eyes.

“No. Lord Holmes. Ah… Sherlock. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” John said. His mouth was dry and the word lodged in the back of his throat.

“Shall I call for some wine for you?”

John shook his head. “I will be better in a moment…”

Sherlock pulled away and sat with his hands primly folded in his lap.

“Is it dawn yet?”

“A little before.”

“Have you slept?”

“No.”

John furiously tried to scrub the last of nightmare away with the back of his hand. “Why did you stop?”

“What?”

“The prayer.”

Sherlock shook his head and frowned. “It does not mean anything.”

“I… I found it comforting,” John said.

“You mistook me for another man when I spoke it. Perhaps… a better man.” Sherlock’s gaze dropped to his hands. “You dreamt of him?”

John gritted his teeth. “Yes.”

“Tell me. Did you meet him in Constantinople?” Sherlock murmured.

“No,” John sighed. “No, I followed him there… James… that was his name. Sir James Sholto. He was a poor country knight, from a humble family in the North. He… he was tall – like you – and he carried himself regally, as if he were a gentleman of a greater family. He had wondrously blue eyes and very fair hair…

“We met in London. This was many years ago, as I was finishing my apprenticeship. A servant came to fetch my master, but he was not home, so I went in his place to the bedside of a dying man. I spent the whole night trying every remedy that I could think of… and then at last praying for his fever to break, for he was beyond my care.

“But at dawn, he improved a little. And the next day, he sat up in bed. And from that day hence, we would not be parted from each other. It felt like... fate, I suppose. To meet in such a way, to immediately feel such a kinship, and... and love, if it could be called that. I never thought I would find someone, and…”

Sherlock stood and turned away, his face blank and his shoulders taut.

“When James announced his intention to go to the East, and fight in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ, I could not bear to be left behind. Perhaps, I was young, and foolish to follow him. But staying in England was not… I could not. Thus, I became a soldier, too.”

“How did it happen? His death?”

John dug his fingernails into his palms, so sharply that he thought he might bleed. “It was the feast day of Saint Apollinaris, just as the sun rose over the countryside. We were some distance outside of the city – too far for ready enforcements – nought but a meagre scouting party, barely an experienced man among us. James sighted a camp of Ottomans and led us to battle. He was eager to fight… perhaps, too eager. But it is done now.”

“You saw him fall?”

“Aye. I was dazed with a blow to my head and a wound to my shoulder, but I saw him dragged away by four Ottomans, senseless and bloodied.”

“Then you did not see him dead.”

John shook his head, fighting back tears. “If he was not dead, then the he would have been tortured and killed within the week. I pray, if that happened, that it was quick.”

“But…”

“No more, Sherlock,” John said quietly. He stretched his bad arm stiffly, and then slid out of the bed and began to collect his garments. “Your man, Lestrade, told me he saw you return last night with a quiver.”

“Aye,” Sherlock murmured. He nudged something propped next to the table with his foot, and a quiver tipped over, spilling arrows across the thickly carpeted floor.

“That is… that is the quiver, is it not? The dead archer’s quiver?”

“Obviously.”

John finished struggling into his doublet and then knelt and touched one of the arrows. “How did you find it?”

“By looking,” Sherlock sighed, dropping heavily into a chair at the table.

“Where?”

“The killer met his man in the swamp, did we not already determine? Aye. So he did. And when the archer died, he was relieved of this quiver. Perhaps his killer was a rival archer serving another Lord, and jealous of the fellow’s arms. Perhaps he was merely greedy, and hoping to sell the quiver in town. Or perhaps the killer truly _needed_ a weapon…”

“Men do not murder for a quiver and a handful of arrows, alone,” John said.

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Do you think so?”

John shook his head.

“No, you are right in this case, at least… But whoever killed this man, we know he cannot be among the Duke of Gloucester’s company. For our killer, as soon as he realised that the quiver was embossed with Gloucester’s badge, discarded it into the dunes. It was not the work of an hour to find it. Had he carried the quiver with him back into camp, he would have instantly been known, for he is not one of Gloucester’s men. And that was his _first_ mistake.”

“You know all that, just because you realised that the quiver would bear Gloucester’s arms?”

“Yea, indeed,” Sherlock said, impatiently rolling his eyes.

John finished lacing his hosen and struggled into his shirt. His shoulder ached, not entirely unpleasantly. “Wait. You said he would have been known the moment he came back into camp? He is among us? That is, he is English?”

“Or Welsh. Or mercenary. But, yes, the murderer is among our number.”

John shook his head. “How will he ever be found?”

Sherlock smiled like a cat with a mouse under its paw. “Think what we saw last night. Do you understand what is missing?”

John tried to exactly remember how the body had looked. His mind was still clouded with the lingering scent of opium, and the taste of Sherlock’s lips, and the dreams that haunted his sleep. “What is missing? How could I possibly know that?”

“The _bow_ , John. The murderer has the bow. It was neither with the body, nor in the dunes.”

“Maybe the archer left it in camp.”

“He would not dare, wandering alone in a foreign countryside. And not when he carried his quiver. No… he expected to meet someone. Someone dangerous.”

They were interrupted when one of Sherlock’s men called into the tent, “Message for you, Lord Holmes!”

Sherlock smiled grimly and stepped outside, leaving John alone to finish dressing. As fascinating as the dead archer was, there were almost certainly men among Sherlock’s own modest company that needed his attention. There was little he could do to cure the bloody flux, but surely he was needed more by the living than the dead. The hand of a physician might confer as much comfort to a dying man as the hand of a priest, if that hand was compassionate and mild.

Sherlock ducked back into the tent, a scrap of parchment in his fist. “Our murderer has made yet another mistake.”

“He what?”

Sherlock smirked. “I sent one of my men through the camp before you woke, asking if anyone had seen a quiver embossed with the Duke of Gloucester’s arms, and a bow.”

John gaped at Sherlock. “In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, why? Now the murderer knows he is being sought out.”

“But by whom?” Sherlock asked. “Not a day after our murderer’s last victim, a man walks through camp seeking those very items. It could only be him – the victim himself. For Lestrade pressed his men not to speak of it when they went to fetch the body last night, and there have been no rumours in camp this morning of another suicide.

“Now, most men would not be bothered by a lost quiver and bow. But the murderer…” Sherlock tapped the piece of parchment. “…the murderer would panic!”

John reached for the scrap of paper and read the words to himself. “Is… is this Greek, again?”

“Indeed. This knave is a most learned man.”

“Sherlock, who sent this to you?”

“Gloucester. I sent a runner to him early this morning, troubling him to detain any strange men seen lurking about his camp. Alas, none were found. But someone did slip this message into Gloucester’s very own tent, which he then kindly despatched to me.”

“Into the tent of the King’s brother himself! Jesus. Are you… do you know Gloucester very well?” John asked tentatively. He knew that Sherlock was an earl, but by his casual demeanour and chaotic little tent, it was becoming uncomfortably easy for John to forget.

“We were children together,” Sherlock said, surveying John cautiously in turn. “Not great friends, i’faith. I… I had very few true companions as a boy. Yet, he is a man I would rather fight with than against, and he _reliably_ has the King’s ear, which can be said of few men. Well, few men that I mingle with. I think it would be very well to walk over to the Royal Camp this morning, and see if I can spot anything out of the usual. Will you come with me, John?

“Sherlock,” John wearily sighed. “I should attend to your men. They are no more spared by the flux than any other Lord’s men.”

Sherlock held back the tent flap and beckoned to John. “If I were to say that it might be dangerous, would it persuade you?”

John clenched his jaw in frustration. “Damn it.” And he trailed Sherlock out of the tent.

* * *

The morning light was watery and grey, a sign of impending autumn rainfall. John pulled the sleeves of his doublet down over his hands to protect them from the cold air coming off the ocean. His mind restlessly drifted back to the warmth of the East. And then, unwillingly, his thoughts turned to the night before, and Sherlock.

“Do stop being so distracting,” Sherlock said, not exactly unkindly, but still rather sharp.

“I… I am most sorry,” John said. “I did not realize I was.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed.

“But…” John said tentatively.

“If you wish to speak of last night, it would be better if you did not.”

“Oh.” John was taken aback. It was as if Sherlock could read his mind. “I see.”

But he could not stop mulling over the events of the past day. He had been so lonely of late, desperate for companionship and conversation… It was foolish of him, anyway, to expect anything more from an Earl than a single warm night in a bed and a pleasant memory for cold nights to come. He tried to focus back on the case at hand. “Do you think the murderer would be imprudent enough to go back there?”

Sherlock’s face lit up. “No, I think he is _brilliant_ enough. I adore a brilliant criminal. They are always so desperate to be found out.”

“Why?”

“Appreciation! Salutations! They could show the monsters and madmen of antiquity a thing or two!”

John scoffed a little at Sherlock. “That, I suppose, is the weakness of pride – there is no point to it without a spectator.” But his mild insult passed Sherlock by without notice.

“This is his hunting ground, right here in the camp. He selects his victims, somehow entices them to come to him – or with him. They all departed unnoticed from the bustle of tents, the campfires and companies… nobody missed them until they were dead.

“Who would you trust, John? Who would you go with, whose presence would not disturb you if you saw them wandering among the men? Who could slip, unseen, into a Duke’s tent?”

For a moment, John’s attention wandered away to a priest offering last rites to an emaciated man lying by a fireside. He rightly should have been doctoring to the poor soldiers, not following Sherlock on this fool’s quest. There was little he could do, simple surgeon that he was, to cure the flux. But to a dying man, a doctor’s hands might provide as much comfort as a priest’s. He wrenched his gaze away to look back at Sherlock, and he felt his pulse swell. “No idea,” he said.

* * *

The morning wearily dragged on into afternoon and then a damp, drizzling evening. Sherlock and John had walked circles through the camp of Gloucester’s men, and then through the pavilion of Gloucester’s own impressive tents. Not far beyond, just a little way up the hill, the King’s tents flew the banner of England. At one point in the day, John had returned to Sherlock’s encampment to fetch bread and ale from Angelo, but even after eating, his stomach felt unpleasantly knotted. The air was tight with tension, and for good reason.

In the royal camp, rumours flew about the King’s plans, though no one could say for sure what they were. Some said that they would sail back to Southampton. Others, that they would march on to the English-held port of Calais. And yet others, either blindly optimistic or fiercely belligerent, continued to believe they would march on into the centre of France and rid mad King Charles of his throne once and for all.

“This is useless,” John groaned, sinking down onto a log by a campfire with great relief. His leg throbbed with dull pain. “The murderer will not return. Not if he has as much intellect as you say.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock wordlessly replied.

“The sun will fall soon. Let us return to your tent.”

“And then what?” Sherlock asked.

John blushed. It was good that the light was starting to fail, for Sherlock did not seem to notice as he raptly gazed out across Gloucester’s neat camp. “I did not mean to imply anything.”

“I see.”

“Unless…”

Sherlock would not meet his eyes. “Unless?”

“Never mind. Forget I spoke just now.”

“I am endeavouring to.”

John bit back the short-tempered reply that sat on the tip of his tongue and picked up a stick with which to irritably stir the fire’s embers.

“Milord?” A small, mousy boy had appeared by the fire.

Sherlock turned around to inspect the boy with rather more ferocity than strictly speaking necessary. “Aye, boy? What?”

“There is a cleric, milord, who sends for the Earl of the South Downs. Says it is most urgent.”

Sherlock sneered. “Saints preserve us, tell him not now! I will see him on the morrow, if I _must_. Now begone!”

“You could be a little kinder,” John interjected. “The boy is just doing as he was asked.”

“And I am doing as I wish.”

“Which is all you ever seem to do.”

“I can hardly take offense from a remark such as that from a man I have known in the space of less than two days.”

“So be it, _milord_ ,” John said.

“The priest, sir,” the boy repeated. “He is waiting.”

“Not _now_ , you foul little whelp!” Sherlock shouted. The boy’s eyes teared up a little.

“God’s bones, Sherlock,” John swore.

“Not good?”

“ _Bit_ not good.”

Sherlock sighed, his gaze drifting out of the circle of light from the campfire to land on a clergyman in a dark hood. Suddenly, he went quite still. “Is that the priest who calls for me?”

The boy swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand and threw a look over his shoulder. “Aye, milord,” he whispered.

“Ah.” His posture relaxed, and he reached into the purse on his belt and extracted a coin which he handed to the boy. “Gramercy. You may go.”

“Are you well?” John asked suspiciously.

“What? Aye… I am fine. I… I should speak to this priest.”

“We should go back to your camp.”

“Good idea.” Sherlock walked away from the fire, in precisely the opposite direction of his tent. “I will meet you there once I have spoken to this man.”

“I… yes, all right. Perhaps you should confess your multitude of sins,” John rather weakly joked, though Sherlock did not seem to hear him. “I will see you back at the tent. You… you _are_ well?”

“Quite fine,” Sherlock said.

* * *

“Gracious good e’en to you, my son.”

“You are not the priest I expected to call on me.”

“Are you bothered by many?”

“Plagued,” Sherlock jeered. “But, you are the man _I_ have sought. You can come and go from the camps, you can slip into a Duke’s tent, perhaps to offer communion – all without suspicion. You call on the frightened men of good King Henry’s army to walk with you, confess to you. You warn them of their mortality, the damnation upon their souls. And then you lead them to the darkest swamps, and…”

“Who would suspect a priest? A poor man of Christ? No one ever thinks of the clergymen. I am practically invisible in camp, surrounded by so much vain armour, and pride, and death.” The priest smiled magnanimously at Sherlock. “It is a blessing.”

“What are you called?”

“Father Geoffrey, of Stanhope. Chaplain to Sir William de Ligh and his three hired lances.”

“You tell me this freely?”

“Aye. And if you like, I will tell Duke Gloucester, and the King, and anyone you like. I will not run. I will sit quietly and let you lead me to the gallows. I swear it to Saint Peter and Saint Paul and all the saints in heaven.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why?”

“You will not go to them.”

“Will I not?”

Father Geoffrey’s smile widened. “Those men died with clean souls, Earl South Downs. Who could fault me that? And I did not kill them. I spoke to them… and they killed themselves. Furthermore, if you call for men to seize me, I swear one thing more to the saints. I will never tell you what I said.”

“Ah. Well. No one else would die, then, and I believe that is a good end to this.”

“And you will never understand _how_ those men died. Is _that_ good, in your eyes?”

Sherlock paused and pursed his lips. “If I _wanted_ to understand, what would I do?”

“Walk with me.”

“So you can kill me, too?”

Father Geoffrey sighed. “Earl South Downs – Lord Holmes – Sherlock. May I call you Sherlock? Sherlock, I do not want to kill you. I want to talk to you… and then you will kill yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was one hell of a hiatus. I apologize for the delay, but I am pretty profoundly determined to finish this fic. As consolation for being so slow to update, this will now be five (not four) chapters long.


	5. Chapter 5

They walked side by side from the camp, no one batting an eye at the sight of a Lord and a priest in quiet conference. Sherlock nodded in greeting to a passing knight. They were almost to the edge of camp, the fires and tents becoming fewer in number and further apart. The sun made one last, valiant attempt to break through the haze of clouds over Harfleur, and blazed red against the sea on the Western horizon.

“How did you find me?”

“Oh, I have heard many accounts of your feats in England. Most excellent, milord! A man quite like no other. And… I was warned of you, long before I departed with the army for France.”

“Who warned you?” Sherlock quietly asked.

“Just someone who noticed you.”

“In London? Who would notice me?” Sherlock intently surveyed Father Geoffrey’s face, all careworn lines and blotchy patches of reddened skin. He had a pronounced squint and a nervous tic at the corner of his mouth. His habit was tidy but worn, a string of wooden prayer beads rubbed smooth and a handkerchief looped through his belt.

“You are too modest, Sherlock,” Father Geoffrey said.

“I’m really not,” Sherlock murmured.

“Moderation in all things… including moderation. You have an ardent admirer.”

“Do tell me more.”

“Nay. That is all you will know… in this lifetime.”

* * *

John slumped back towards the tent, exhausted by the day’s inaction and the petty quarrelling with Sherlock. Angelo had promised to have some sort of stew or roast waiting when they returned that night, and though John could not be entirely sure how Angelo was summoning up supplies of food while the rest of the camp bordered on starvation, he was grateful for it.

“Ho there! John!”

John startled out of his reverie. “Hallo, Lestrade.”

“Where is Lord Holmes?”

“Went off to talk to a priest.”

“Ah,” Lestrade hummed, nodding in understanding. “I see.”

John inadvertently let out a weary sigh, prompting Lestrade to crack a half-smile. “Why... why do you all serve under him?”

“We are desperate,” Lestrade said. “It pays a wage, it keeps our families from the grave. Beats threshing grain or herding sheep.”

“No,” John said. “That is not it, is it? Or, not all of it.”

Lestrade shook his head. “If not that, then because Lord Holmes is a great man. And… perhaps… because he might one day be a _good_ one, _if_ we are fortunate. He is surprisingly tolerant, exceedingly wise… he just lacks some moral fortitude, from time to time.” Lestrade paused, looking at John with something rather like compassion. “Go and rest, John. You look as though you just sailed to England and back all in one day. I will find Angelo and tell him to bring food.”

John, no longer hesitating, went to Sherlock’s tent and pushed aside the flap. It was dark inside, and felt surprisingly empty without the Earl’s imposing presence. The opium brazier and the candles sat cold where they had been left that morning. John picked up the brazier and a taper, dumping the opium into the mud outside the tent and lighting the candle from a campfire. Then he retreated back inside, first sitting in one of the two chairs by the table, then pacing in an attempt to loosen the pain in his leg.

He nervously fiddled with the coverlet on the bed, smoothing out its wrinkles, and tried to set the tent to order. The skull had been tipped over at some point, so John set it right, and then swept the pile of ragged parchments together into a neat stack. One note caught his eye. A scrawl of strange figures in black ink. Greek.

 _This knave is a most learned man_ , Sherlock had said that very morning.

John stared at the parchment a little longer, his heart thudding. Thoughts scrabbled through his head, trying to arrange themselves in some way that made sense.

“Oh,” he whispered. “ _Oh_.”

And then he was through the tent flap, nearly bowling Angelo over as he carried a tureen of something aromatic and savoury. He ran blindly for the swamp, without plan of action. Someone caught his arm, and he wildly thrashed, trying to get away.

“John! John, what is the matter?”

“Lestrade!” John gasped. “Lestrade, the... the priest… Sherlock is with him, they are in the swamp! He will be murdered if we do not find him!”

To his surprise, Lestrade laughed. “The priest? A murderer? I doubt that.”

“Let me go, Lestrade!” John said, wrenching his arm from Lestrade’s hand. “There was a letter, in Greek… Sherlock said the murderer was a learned man… it is the priest, it has to be the priest!”

Lestrade’s eyes narrowed. “What did this priest look like?”

“What did he… I do not know, Lestrade! He was short and wore a hood. I have to… I need to find Sherlock!”

Lestrade nodded grimly. “Short? Not tall, with a sort of broad brow and an eagle’s nose? _Sard_. Then I believe you. I will find Philip and Salvator and we will meet you in the swamp to search. Take my bow and quiver. And go!”

* * *

“Why here?” Sherlock asked, surveying the brackish wasteland that stretched to both the north-eastern wall of Harfleur, and down to the sea. Darkness creeped up on them, and many campfires had sprung to life in the main English camp and the Duke of Clarence’s camp in the last half hour. “Why not within deserted Harfleur, or on the shore?”

“It is quietest here. No one traverses the swamp after nightfall.”

“The foul night air,” Sherlock murmured. “You do not fear it?”

“Nay,” Father Geoffrey said.

“And you just walk your victims here, without protest? How?”

“I can condemn your soul to hell if you do not do as I ask. Or, I suppose, I could shoot you.”

Sherlock sighed. “Oh, dull. You cannot convince people to follow you here to kill themselves on pain of excommunication. And you kept the archer’s bow? Where is it? Can you even draw it to your jaw, little priest?”

The priest smiled, unconcerned. “I am much cleverer than that. And, anyhow, with you… I did not need to threaten your immortal soul, for you followed me with willing and open heart. What do you think, milord? Your final resting place.”

Sherlock shrugged. “A bit damp.”

“Hmm. Well. Shall we talk now?”

“This is rather perilous for you, is it not? Playing with the hand of fate. You took me away from under the eyes of my surgeon John, and he will certainly remember you. And many saw us walk through camp. I am not exactly unknown in camp.”

“Perilous? Hardly. Now this… this is playing with the hands of fate.” Father Geoffrey reached deep into a pocket and pulled out a small leather flask. “Do you not understand? You will.” He reached back into the pocket and pulled out a second, identical flask. “Did you expect that? Do you see now? You _will_ enjoy this.”

“Enjoy what?”

“Look at you! Lord Holmes, Earl of the South Downs. Here, in the flesh, right before me. I had hardly expected to meet you, not even after your admirer had warned me of you.”

“My admirer?”

“You _are_ brilliant. The archetype of the thinking man in our age. The finest and brightest of philosophers. Between you and me, why can more people not _think_ as we scholars do? Does it not anger you, how people waste themselves on vanity?” Father Geoffrey’s voice had risen to a high, harsh pitch.

Sherlock scowled. “Yea, I see now. You are a _brilliant_ philosopher, too.”

“Do I look it? Funny little chaplain, little parish priest, little nobody. But, you will know, in just a minute. Fate willing, it will be the last thing you ever know.”

Sherlock took a few steps, warily testing the slippery ground beneath his boots, then turned to meet Father Geoffrey’s eyes. “Very well, priest. Two flasks. Explain.”

“There is a good flask, and a bad flask. You drink the good flask, you live. You drink the bad flask, you die.”

“Both flasks are of course identical.”

“In every way. Though one of these flasks contains hemlock, in addition to a strong draught of dwale.”

Sherlock impatiently thrummed his fingers against his doublet. “And you know which is which.”

“Aye.”

“But I do not.”

“It would not tempt fate if you did. You, after all, are the one who chooses.”

Sherlock laughed. “Why should I? I have no means of even beginning to choose the correct flask. There is no prize for me at the end of this.”

Father Geoffrey nodded, his face growing harder to see by the minute as the sun finally sank beyond the horizon. “Whichever flask you choose, I drink from the other one.”

“Ha!” Sherlock playfully kicked at the muck and weeds. “Well!”

“I told you that you would love this. And I swear by God I will not cheat you. Choose freely.”

“This is what you did to the others? You gave them a choice, blessed them, absolved their sins, and together you drank your potions. Who would not be tempted by this, in Godforsaken Harfleur?”

“And now, the choice is yours,” Father Geoffrey said. “Do take your time. Choose the right flask – win the game.”

“It is hardly a game,” Sherlock replied. “This is chance.”

“I have played four times in Harfleur alone. I am alive. It is not chance, not by half, Sherlock. Let us call it… chess. A game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. This… this is the move.” He handed Sherlock one of the flasks. “Is this the good flask? Or the bad flask? You can choose either one.”

Sherlock took a few strides away, watching the fires of the English camp in the distance. Somewhere, John was probably tucking into a roast and a piece of bread, drinking Angelo’s good wine. Laying down to rest in a bed trimmed with fittings that almost certainly cost more than his childhood home and all his family’s possessions. He deserved it, Sherlock thought. John was a man who should have had many nice things, and yet he had met misfortune with every step. Sherlock had never before met someone with such generosity of spirit, such kindness, such depth… he had never before been so admired by someone: not for his intelligence or sharp wit, but for being the person he was. It… it was a shame to tempt fate, to throw it all away. And yet…

“Are you ready, Sherlock? Ready to play?” the priest called.

“Play what? It is chance, mere chance. A roll of the dice.”

“You are playing me, not the odds,” Father Geoffrey said. “Did I just give you the good flask or the bad flask? Think!”

Sherlock turned and walked back. “It is nought but a chance.”

“Four people in a row? It is _not_ chance.”

“Luck, then.”

“I am beloved by God,” the priest said. “And I _know_ how people think. I can see you there, contemplating my game. It is all laid out before me, the thoughts you are thinking, a _mappa mundi_ in my head.”

Sherlock shook the flask by his ear, listening to the fluid queasily slosh inside. “So, you risk your life to kill strangers? Why?”

“Time to play, Sherlock.”

“Oh, I am playing now.” Sherlock’s teeth were white in the darkness, a smile over a barely concealed threat. “This is _my_ move. Old robe, worn beads… you are not a wealthy man. The church’s coffers are deep as the coffers in Solomon’s Temple, but not for you, little man. And your handkerchief that hangs on your belt… embroidered with a lady’s initial, is it not? A token. Forbidden pleasures, hmm. How many children do you have? One? Two? Three? You cannot strictly speaking acknowledge them, but you have done your best to support them, all these years. Is that why you took on the role of chaplain to Sir de Ligh? Does he pay you better than some no-name parish in Stanhope?”

Father Geoffrey took an uneasy step back as Sherlock towered over him. His fingers unconsciously went to his belt and caressed the handkerchief.

“No… but there is more. Why does a priest suddenly embark on a mad quest to murder a handful of archers? What could convince you to revoke the last of your vows?”

The priest was sweating now, a visible sheen on his forehead as the moon began to rise in the sky.

“You are a dead man walking, Father.”

“So are you,” Father Geoffrey said.

“But how long do you have? Not long, I think? Those blemishes on your brow… at first, I thought you had just been too much in the sun. But… what sun is there in Harfleur? You are in the first throes of leprosy, are you not? Your eyesight is failing… I saw you squint in the light when you first came to me this evening in the camp, and the nervous spasm in your face. Perhaps God does not love you so much, after all,” Sherlock said wryly.

“I will be cast out of society,” the priest said. “I will die in pain and shame, left to beg on the drover’s roads and corpse roads, or to rot in an asylum with a thousand other lepers and pestilential carcasses. They say the limbs of lepers turn black and drop off.”

“And because you are tainted – and _dying_ – you murdered at least four other men.”

“I _outlived_ four men. That is the most fun a condemned man can have.”

“No. No, that is not it.” Sherlock thoughtfully cocked his head and surveyed the priest by the moonlight. “You did not kill four people because you are bitter about your lot in life. Bitterness is a paralytic. Now, love… love is a much more vicious motivator.” The thought of John – good John, who loved so much and so openly and honestly when it would have been better for him to keep silent – rose again to Sherlock’s mind, where he quelled it with annoyance. “Somehow, this is about your woman, and your children.”

The Father sighed. “Ah. You are rather good at this.”

“How?” Sherlock demanded. “How is it about your illicit little family?”

“You said it yourself. I am but poor priest. How will they live when I am gone?”

“And what money is there for an Englishman, in preying on Englishmen?”

Father Geoffrey shrugged. “You would be surprised.”

“Surprise me.”

“I have a patron.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“For every murder of an Englishman in King Henry’s army, money goes to my children and their mother. The more I kill, the more secure they are. Do you see?”

“Who would patronize a murderer? Are you an infiltrator from the court of King Charles?”

“Who would patronize me? The sort of person who would admire a man such as Lord Holmes.”

The two men stared at each other for a moment, the silence stretching uncomfortably between them.

“There are others,” Father Geoffrey said, cautiously, “who enjoy a good mystery, a clever murderer, a criminal that escapes the hangman just to swing another day. Just like you. But much, much more than you… so much more important, so powerful… more powerful, even than a king or an emperor.”

Sherlock grit his teeth together impatiently. “What do you mean, more than me? More than a man? What, a sect? A guild?”

“There is a name no man speaks, nor will I. Now, you have delayed long enough. Choose a flask.”

Sherlock shook the flask in his hand again. “What if I do not choose? What if I walk away?”

“You can choose a flask, or I stab you.” The priest pulled a long, wickedly thin knife of the Italian style from the folds of his habit.

Sherlock calmly smiled. His right hand subtly moved to rest on the hilt of the dagger thrust in his own belt. “The knife, please.”

“The knife? Are you sure that is what you prefer?”

“Yea, certainly, priest. The knife.”

The Father’s hand clenched tighter around the knife’s handle, and he somewhat shakily raised it to strike at Sherlock’s throat. Without warning, Sherlock drew his dagger and carelessly knocked the blade into the muck at their feet, then burst out laughing.

“You did not really think you could stab me, did you, little priest? I am an Earl, you miserable fiend! I may not be among the lists at the tournaments, but I can wield a weapon as well as any knight in the kingdom.”

Father Geoffrey shakily exhaled.

“Well, this has been most informative. I look forward to seeing you hang.” Sherlock slid the dagger back into his belt. “And I bid you good e’en.”

“Wait! Before you go,” the Father cried out, “did you figure it out? Did you choose the good flask?”

“Of course,” Sherlock sneered.

“Which flask, then? Which did you choose, so I may know if I could have defeated you? A dying man’s wish, Lord Holmes.”

“Lord Holmes, is it now?” Sherlock grabbed the flask from Father Geoffrey’s hand. The priest, in turn, took back the flask he had given Sherlock and unstoppered it.

“I see. So? Shall we?”

Sherlock turned the flask in his hands over a few times, feeling the stitching of its seams in his hands.

“Really, do you think this is a game of chess you could win?”

Sherlock unstoppered the flask and sniffed its contents.

“Are you clever enough to beat me?”

They both raised the flasks to their lips, eyes locked on one another.

“I bet you get bored… I _know_ you do. A man like you… the weight of the world on your shoulders… the tedium of existence… not even the crowds of London, not even opium can sate you. Proud, greedy, _glutton_. You would do anything… anything at all, to stop… being… bored.”

The rim of the flask met Sherlock’s lower lip. He could feel the vapours coming off the dwale on his tongue.

“You are not bored now, milord, are you?” The priest’s voice had dropped to nearly a whisper, as insubstantial a thing as the fog that began to rise up around them. “Is this not _good_?”

Sherlock tipped the flask back.

* * *

A tide of panic rose in John with every minute that passed in which he did not find Sherlock. At first, there had been enough light to see some distance ahead of him, but the sun had set and then the moon and the fog rose. The marsh stank as the tide went out, drawing sea water back from the weeds and leaving filth behind. There lay among the high grasses the occasional horse’s carcass, partially stripped to the bone by hungry soldiers, or the bloated body of a man who had crawled out of camp to shit and then died, another forgotten victim of the bloody flux. It was a landscape dredged up from a nightmare, the likes of which John had never before imagined.

And yet, in the midst of his fear, he felt strangely alive. It was not a sensation he was entirely, consciously aware of. Just a realization that he was not in pain for the first time in a long time, and that his mind was free of all his troubles but one: find Sherlock. He ran through the marshes, kicking up mud until his hosen were spattered to mid-thigh and fetid water seeped into his boots.

When he made it as far as the burned-out northern tower of Harfleur, he doubled back, intent on systematically crossing through the marsh until he had covered every step of it, and then the dunes, and the shore. He would search until dawn, and beyond, if he had to.

It was almost by accident that he spotted Sherlock and the priest some distance off, dark shapes that just as easily could have been tufts of grass outlined against the dunes: one tall and thin, the other small and round. “Sherlock!” he cried out, but he was not within hearing distance, or the men were oblivious to anything but themselves. “God, no,” he moaned. His chest heaved as if he were in battle. He did not know if he could make it there before something terrible occurred.

He remembered the field outside of Constantinople. Another man, a very different man whom he had adored… a man he would have fallen in battle to save, if he had not been too far, too weak to save him.

A new surge of energy shot through him, a Godsend, and he recovered his breath.

Some three hundred or so paces off, making such a racket it was a miracle Sherlock and the priest did not turn to stare at him in amazement, John saw Sherlock in the weak moonlight lifting something to his lips.

“No!” John screamed. “No, Sherlock!” His fingers found an arrow in the quiver and set it to the bow, and he drew with a strength he had forgotten he had, shoulder effortlessly, painlessly moving through motions he had not practised in many years. For just a moment, he paused: mind emptied of all thought, body perfectly still. And then the dark, distant shape of the priest was in his sights and he let the arrow fly.

It flew true, the shape of the priest stiffening and then collapsing in a heap at Sherlock’s feet.

And then John was running again, running like a villager with a grudge in a Shrovetide football match. He would see this ended, here and now.

* * *

Sherlock dropped the flask with a startled shout and came back to his senses as the priest gurgled in the mud at his feet. There was an arrow neatly piercing his throat, and in the night someone – or something – laboriously splashed towards them in the swamp. He raised his dagger in preparation, other hand tightening into a fist in preparation.

And then John was there: breathless and swearing, eyes wild in the dim moonlight, covered in filth and reeking of fear. Sherlock threw his dagger down to try to hold him back from the priest, who he strained for with curses and dark threats.

“John! John, stop!” Sherlock shouted. “He is a leper, John!

But John was too far gone in many years’ worth of rage and frustration and fear to hear him. All he wanted was to strike a blow against every inch of the priest’s body he could reach, and the grimly satisfying sensation of bones breaking under his hands.

“John!” Sherlock repeated, and this time he grabbed at John’s shoulders and hauled him back with surprising strength. “Breathe, John.”

John took a long, shuddering breath and then looked back at the priest, still faintly struggling for breath. “Oh, Lord Jesus… Will I hang for this?”

Sherlock laid a hand on his shoulder. “I doubt it. But go to the shore and wash off in the sea. Then return to the tent. I will be there shortly.”

John numbly obeyed, avoiding looking at the bloodied, mewling mess of the priest. When he was gone, Sherlock retrieved the flask he had dropped.

“Was I right?”

The priest made a high, thin noise of disbelief that was not quite a word.

“I was, was I not? Tell me. Did I get it right?” Sherlock hurled the flask back to the ground. “If you will not tell me, then tell me who your patron is? My admirer. I want a name.”

“No,” Father Geoffrey gasped, blood bubbling slightly from one corner of his mouth.

“You might be dying, little priest, but I can still hurt you,” Sherlock hissed. With one heavy boot, he trod on the end of the arrow protruding from Father Geoffrey’s neck. “Now! The name!”

“Ó Muircheartaigh!”

Sherlock mouthed the strange name to himself, grimly satisfied. And then he watched as the life slowly drained from Father Gregory.

Not long after, Lestrade arrived with Philip and Sally.

“ _Dei nobiscum_ ,” Lestrade muttered, looking at the bloodied priest with something between horror and interest. Then, seeing his lord wet and filthy, he shrugged off his cloak and tried to wrap Sherlock in it.

“Save your prayers,” Sherlock said, trying – and failing – to shrug off the cloak.

“You will catch your death, milord, in this air. Where is John? Did he find you?”

Sherlock simply shook his head.

“Is that one of my arrows? Did…?”

“We will none of us speak of this again,” Sherlock ordered his captain and soldiers. “It is done. This debased priest does not deserve a Christian burial. Best to let the gulls pick his bones clean. Now, back to camp. The King orders us ready to march on the morrow.”

* * *

Sherlock thought, at first, that the tent was empty. All the tapers sat unlit, but in darkness, a figure that smelled of saltwater and marsh and worn leather lay upon the bed and breathed in and out with deliberate rhythm.

“Are you well?” Sherlock asked, keeping his voice soft and careful.

“Aye,” John said. “I… I am.”

“You did just kill a man. A priest, in fact.”

“Well, he was not a very nice man. Terrible, really. ”

“Aye. He was, really.”

John sat up in the bed. He could not possibly have seen much in the dark, but Sherlock felt his eyes were still boring into him. “You were going to drink what was in that flask, were you not?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock scoffed. “I knew you would turn up. Eventually.”

“No, you did not. You _could_ not have. It is just what you do, is it not? You risk your life. You do it just to prove you are clever.”

“And _why_ would I do that?”

“You are a fool,” John said. His voice was harder than he had expected it to be. “Do not do it again.”

Sherlock nodded in the darkness. “Aye. I will not.” He then began undressing for bed, hand skimming over his belt to find his dagger missing from its scabbard, and then quickly dismissed the thought from his mind. “But… Muircheartaigh.”

“What?” John said.

“Ó Muircheartaigh. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“No. What does it mean?”

“I do not know,” Sherlock said, tentatively sliding into the bed with John. “But… you are… you do not need… should I…?”

“Stay,” John said. “Well. I am hardly in a place to turn an Earl from his own bed.”

“I _would_ go. If you wished it. You need the comfort and sleep, more than I.”

“You think too highly of me. Or too little of yourself.”

They sank into silence for a time, neither sleeping, but comfortable in each other’s quiet presence.

At length, John spoke again. “I thought… this morning… you were…”

“Cold,” Sherlock said. “Impassive, when you told me of your beloved James. Short with you, all throughout the day.”

“Aye,” John said, cautiously. “I understand. If this is nothing more than a dream, nothing more than a fond memory in a few days’ time…”

“I… I do not know how to care for someone else. I am quite lost in this territory. I do not have any poems at hand to… to woo you, no songs to play to stir tender feelings,” Sherlock admitted. He spoke so softly that John could barely hear him. “I cannot be the kind of man your Sir James was. But – and I do not know _how_ I know this – I _do_ know that I want you here, at my side. At all times. If… if you would like. If not, I can release you back to Erpingham’s service. My company will survive, for a time, without a surgeon. And I… I will go on. As before.”

John exhaled slowly. “Does it not bother you, Sherlock, to be a sodomite? To be forsaken in the eyes of God?”

“Do you feel forsaken?” Sherlock asked.

John thought about it for a moment. “No,” he said. “No, I feel fortunate to have known James. To have loved him, and been loved in return. And now, to have met you. Poems and songs would escape me, anyways, Sherlock. I have no great learning. I am a simple surgeon. And you are fine just as you are. I will not leave you, so long as you want me to stay.”

* * *

They drifted into sleep, and awoke sometime later, limbs entwined. It must have been near dawn. A light rain drummed against the tent, and the sounds of camp stirring filtered through the tapestries and damasks that lined the walls.

It took John a moment to recollect where he was, but there was no panic in him as he awoke. He was calm and warm. The dark, narrow shape of the man next to him breathed in and out at a temperate pace. The events of the night before came back to him slowly: a soft wave of recollection, without the usual violence of remembrance. He had killed a man – no, a priest. And Sherlock was his, if he wanted him.

John did.

He stood and stretched, anticipating a sharp ache in his shoulder. It pained him, but the pain was dull and distant. His leg felt well enough to march a hundred miles or more. When he pulled the tent flap aside, the dawning morning was grey and all the banners in camp flapped in a stiff October breeze. Sherlock’s men were up and moving, the camp breaking down and being packed away around them. He let the flap fall back into place and returned to the bed, sitting at Sherlock’s side.

“Sherlock,” he called. He was answered by a soft, wordless groan of protest from under the coverlet. “Sherlock, you said it yourself. The King orders our march today.”

Sherlock half-sat up and pressed a kiss to John’s lips. “I move for no man,” he murmured. His tongue traced along John’s bottom lip, his teeth gentle against the fragile skin, his breath warm.

“No man?” John sighed. He flipped the covers out of the way and laid down again so that they aligned, lips to lips and chests pressed against one another. Sherlock looped one absurdly long arm around John’s torso and nuzzled closer, burning with heat in the brisk air.

“You may find,” Sherlock said stutteringly, “that I am somewhat prone to exaggeration.”

“Nay,” John said good-naturedly, crow’s feet crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “I would _never_ have ventured to make such an assumption.”

“Do shut up,” Sherlock said. And a hush came over the tent, except for the soft noises of rainfall and the creak of the mattress and the whisper bare skin against linen. Time passed by, unmarked without the movement of the sun in the sky or the burning of a candle. John knew he was drenched in sweat, and Sherlock likewise, but he felt no chill in the air as his lover thrust between his legs. All that mattered was the sound of Sherlock’s breathing and the sensation of his aching cock pressed between their bellies. He grabbed at Sherlock’s arse, trying to draw him closer and erratically grinding against him. Sherlock gave a soft sound like a sob, spending himself between John’s thighs. And then his hands were on John, one grasping at his hip so hard the skin bruised, and the other stroking John’s cock until he, too, came with a shout.

Then they lay in the fine bed, slick with sweat and breathless, Sherlock’s head pressed over John’s heart, and John’s hand tangled in Sherlock’s hair.

“And the tide and the time that you were born shall be blessed,” Sherlock said, so low that John did not hear.

* * *

When they rose again and dressed, they found that the sun had cleared away some of the clouds of the morning, but a thick haze still hung over the day. John nibbled at a piece of stale bread while Sherlock watched his men dismantle his tent and load its contents into wagons.  

“Be careful!” Sherlock furiously demanded, as the men haphazardly collected his assorted curios and sheaves of parchment and tossed them into trunks, or directly into wagons. “There is a _system_ to it!”

John smiled a little to himself. He owned nothing that could not be carried on his person, and that was fine by him.

A messenger rode up to Sherlock, and John idly watched them exchange words before the man rode away again, apparently not waiting for a reply. Sherlock waved John over.

“I am summoned,” he said, his voice grim. “And you, as well.”

“Where?” John asked. “By whom?”

Sherlock sighed and pursed his lips. “We are called to the King.”

* * *

They rode horses, moving at a quick trot through the English camp. Sherlock said it would not do to keep the King waiting, and John believed him. He was unfamiliar with his mount, and dry-mouthed with nervous anticipation. Sherlock had insisted that the messenger had called them _both_ to the King’s camp, to John’s great disbelief. But here he was, suddenly feeling very small and dirty and insignificant, particularly next to the Earl, though externally he was as composed as ever.

They dismounted, Sherlock shoving his reins into the hands of some person or other and he was off, up the hill where the King’s tent still stood. Overhead, his banner proudly streamed, emblazoned with the lions of England, and also the lilies of France. John scrambled after Sherlock to catch up.

Outside the tent of the King, two men stood. John saw the first man in profile, and his stomach turned. It was one of the cloaked men from two nights before.

“Sherlock!” he hissed. “Er… my Lord Holmes!”

Sherlock turned to look at him with a slight scowl. “What?”

“That is him. That is the man I told you about. The… the French spy?”

“I know _exactly_ who that is,” Sherlock said, his voice darkening. He quickened his pace and was soon at the tent, where he lowered himself to one knee in an elaborate bow before the men. John was left to catch up again, and bowed low enough to almost touch his head to the ground, though he knew not who these men were.

“Rise,” said one of the men, and John looked up and caught sight of a pair of sharp blue eyes and a deep, horrible scar extending cheekbone to nose before he felt compelled to look away. It was the other cloaked man, the one who had stood silent in the darkness and watched him with a kind of detached interest. “John of London. That is your name?”

“Aye, milord,” John said, staring down at his feet.

“Wat’s son. Surgeon. Man-at-arms. Crusader. Killer.”

John nodded numbly.

“Well, John of London. We know of you, but do you know of us?”

John shook his head.

“Speak up, John of London.”

John ground his back teeth together in frustration and lifted his head to meet the man’s eyes again. “No, milord. I know not who you are.”

“We are Henry, the fifth of that name. King of England and France, and Lord of Ireland. _Beloved_ by God and all His Saints in Heaven above. _Now_ , John of London, do you know us?”

“Yes, milord,” John said, simultaneously shamefaced and annoyed.

“And this is the first and chiefest of our advisors, Mycroft, Archbishop of York. Eldest brother to our Earl of the South Downs, Lord Holmes, who you have previously acquainted yourself with.” The King turned his attention away from John, whose eyes had slightly widened in shock, though he did not dare turn to Sherlock and confront him at that particular moment. “Do not think, South Downs, that any of your works escape our notice. We see all and we know all.”

Sherlock nodded shortly, avoiding the gaze of his brother the Archbishop.

“Bring the body,” the Archbishop called.

Two men-at-arms who wore the badges of the King himself appeared from around the tent, carrying the waterlogged and bloating body of the priest from the night before. The arrow in his throat was snapped off, but the wound still clearly visible. One man also threw down a dagger next to the body of the priest.

“Your dagger, I believe, brother,” the Archbishop – Mycroft – said smoothly.

“Yea, thank you, I had missed it,” Sherlock replied just as silkily. He bent to pick it up without hesitation, wiped the dirty blade on one leg of his hosen, and sheathed it back on his belt. Mycroft wrinkled his nose in faint disgust.

“Would you care to explain – before me, your King, and your God – how a priest came to be found dead in the marshes this morning, and arrow through his neck and your dagger in the mud nearby?”

“I have caught you a murderer,” Sherlock said brightly, with a mocking smile directed at his brother. He then turned to the King and half-bowed again, more seriously this time. “This is the man responsible for the camp ‘suicides,’ your Majesty. There shall be no more, now that this man is dead. He was a naught but a corrupted priest. Not worth another moment of your time or consideration.”

The King sceptically surveyed Sherlock for a moment. “Confess to your brother, South Downs. If he is content with you, and offers you fitting penance, then we shall consider the matter at an end.”

“Very good, my King,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock stepped aside with his brother, his face dark with anger at being made to confess anything. John made to follow them, but stopped when the King raised his hand. “Not you, John of London. We would have you walk with us, and speak with us.”

John uneasily followed in the wake of the King as he advanced down the hill. He stopped on a small outcropping that overlooked the English camp as it swarmed with activity, the first wagons beginning to roll out, heading northeast to Calais. The King’s brow furrowed as he watched. John stood silently some ways behind him, waiting for him to speak. At length, he turned to John.

“What do you know of foolishness, John Watson?”

John blinked in surprise. “Milord?”

“My advisors - well, _most_ of them. The Archbishop of York in particular, though I hate to say it, for he has long been a very loyal and wise counsellor. They say it is foolishness to attempt this march to Calais. They tell me to sail home, my tail tucked between my legs, and try again next year. With nothing to show for the title of ‘King of France’, a summer’s worth of campaigning, and a fortune in taxes levied on my people but an insignificant port town in ruins.

“Because, if I strike off into the countryside for Calais with my army so tattered and ill, our every step outside the walls of Harfleur will be dogged by the French army, who wish to murder us all in our sleep. _Particularly_ me. Or, perhaps I will be captured and ransomed for a price that will empty all the coffers of England and Ireland. Though I would rather _die_ first. Well. Either way, I will look a fool. But I would rather look a fool who goes down with his sword in his hand, than a fool who runs home and hides. My name will be spoken in derision for many years to come.”

“Nay, milord,” John said.

“Nay? _Nay_ , John Watson? How can you say nay?”

John looked away from the King for a moment, back up the hill where Sherlock was emphatically gesturing to something on the dead priest’s body, presumably for Mycroft’s benefit. “I think… sometimes… milord, passion might be misinterpreted as foolishness.”

The King nodded. “Perhaps you are right. For… I feel it deep within me, a passion for the battlefield, and the righteousness of my cause. What began with Edward in Crécy, will end with me, though _where_ … I cannot say. The land and glory of my ancestors will return to me, and it shall be a golden era for the united nations of England and France.” He took a deep breath. “You see my scar, John Watson? You are a surgeon. How do you think I came by it?”

John looked, _really_ looked at the King for the first time, considering the shape and the depth of the hideous mark that dominated half of his face. “It… it was an arrow, was it not?”

The King nodded. “I was sixteen. Shot by a longbowman at the Battle of Shrewsbury. It took several days for my physician to extract the arrow, which had lodged in orbit of my eye, near my nose. An ordinary soldier would have died. I… I must be intended for bigger things. I _must_ be.”

John bit his lip and looked back down at the ground. It was not his place to offer commentary on such things.

“I think the Earl has finished confessing,” the King said, gesturing towards his tent. “You may go now, John Watson.” He gripped John’s shoulder with one hand, adorned in beautiful rings and battle scars, and gave him a firm shake. “Go with God, and my blessings. Your counsel is wise, and the Earl is most fortunate to have you in his command. And send the Archbishop of York down here to me.”

John nodded.

“No! No. Tell him I must think for a while. Alone.”

“Aye, milord,” John said. As he backed away, the King looked very forlorn as he stood and surveyed his army.

“ _Regem aliquem magna est penuria degere solum_ ,” the King said, more to the air than to John. He crossed himself and knelt to pray.

* * *

There was nothing left of the tent when they returned, and all of Sherlock’s men were in their ranks and ready to march. A slight groan went through the company when the skies opened and rain began to pour down upon them again. They were hollow-cheeked and sombre, but determined to leave Harfleur behind, perhaps for forever.

Sherlock pulled his hood up over his head after he had mounted his horse. “Are you comfortable, John? She is one of my own palfreys, but if you do not find her to your liking…”

“Nay, she is perfectly fine,” John said, patting the horse’s neck. He was well aware how fortunate he was to have a mount at all, and not be stuck in some rickety wagon, or marching on foot.

“What did the King speak to you about?” Sherlock asked, spurring his horse into motion.

“Foolishness,” said John, after a beat.

“I genuinely would like hear, John. You do not have to make a _joke_ out of it. I will only deduce it from you later,” Sherlock said impatiently.

“Aye, good. I will enjoy this game,” John said, smiling and spurring his own horse after the Earl.

Behind them, the men-at-arms and archers began to move, and the train of King Henry’s army grew by one more company as it wound its way up the coast, towards Calais.


End file.
